A House Divided
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock takes on an old cold case for Mycroft that forces him to make some difficult choices.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**Part of the plot parallels some events in _The R__eichenbach Fall_. Please note the date of publication on this story.** I came up with the idea independently of Steve Thompson.

Also, many of the places I reference in here are real, some are made up. Some are made up but may coincide with the names of real places - if so, that is unintentional. I'm not making any money from using the names of the real places and I don't want to step on anyone's toes, but it would make a pretty crappy story not to use actual places in Edinburgh.

I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>John awoke to find Mycroft and Sherlock sitting opposite each other in the living room, neither of them speaking but not in the way that indicated they'd had a row.<p>

Yet.

Mycroft was sipping tea and Sherlock was fiddling with his violin, cleaning it and tuning it, clearly waiting for John to be up so he could play, since as soon as he emerged from the bedroom, Sherlock set the bow to the strings and started playing. If it could be called that. He had a tendency to deliberately bend the notes into something resembling a screeching cat for his brother's benefit.

When John glared at him, Sherlock stopped, even though the detective had his eyes closed and hadn't seen it. The sound changed to become an actual melody, for which John was grateful. It was enough to deal with Mycroft being there first thing in the morning.

Although, knowing the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had probably been awake for hours. Sherlock certainly had – John had felt him get out of bed in the early hours of the morning and had forced himself to sleep through a string of curses following what sounded like a minor explosion.

There were days – many days – when John considered that his tour in Afghanistan had been solely in preparation for life with Sherlock. If he could sleep through warfare, he could sleep through anything, even Sherlock. He'd even managed to shake the detective off following the minor crisis when Sherlock had crawled back into bed and begun nibbling on his ear and neck. Normally John didn't protest this, but in a sleepy way, he'd decided he was _not_ going to be the distraction for some experiment gone wrong that probably needed cleaning up.

Judging by the mess in the kitchen, it still did.

John raked a hand through his hair and nodded at Mycroft, who returned the greeting.

"'Morning, Mycroft," he said, swallowing on a yawn.

"Good morning, John. There's more tea in the kitchen."

Mycroft had made himself at home, as always. He had to, since Sherlock was not particularly inclined to play the gracious host with him or with anyone, really. John wandered into the kitchen, glancing at the mess on the table that was still fizzing gently, and fixed himself a cup. He heard the violin music stop in the living room and Sherlock came in, standing behind him, and ran his fingers through John's hair over and over.

"What are you doing?" John sighed.

"Fixing your hair."

"No, you're making it worse."

"I like it like this," Sherlock said, then kissed John's neck quickly so the doctor couldn't shrug him off.

"Will you clean up your mess?" John sighed.

"Not right now."

"Before we leave? It can't stay like this all weekend."

"If I let it I could document the results."

"Until it starts eating away at the table then the floor and the flat collapses on Mrs. Hudson's? I know you wouldn't want that."

"That's hardly going to happen, John," Sherlock snorted.

"You don't know that."

Sherlock just grinned against his neck, then nipped his ear.

"And stop it, we have company."

"It's only Mycroft."

"Um, yeah, that makes it worse, actually."

Sherlock laughed and pulled away, heading back into the living room, John following him. The detective flopped back into his chair, sprawling his long limbs everywhere, and John sat down more decorously, gazing at his brother-in-law.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked. He found it better to just get the information straight out, since Sherlock would dance around it for ages if given the choice, and they did have a plane to catch that afternoon, not to mention packing, not to mention John was not showered or dressed and had not eaten.

Mycroft reached into his suit jacket smoothly and pulled out a regular postal envelope and extended it to Sherlock, who grimaced but sat forward to take it. The detective flicked it open with a long, dexterous finger and pulled out the contents. John could see it had already been opened, probably by a letter opener, which meant Mycroft had done so.

Well, that made sense. It was addressed to him, after all.

Sherlock tossed the envelope aside casually and unfolded the single sheet of paper, glancing at it.

"Oh. Another one."

John frowned over his tea mug, giving Sherlock a questioning glance that was completely ignored.

"That's three in two years," Mycroft said.

"Yes, well, not unexpected, really," Sherlock replied, passing the sheet of paper off to John, who leaned forward and took it, frowning at it.

"What do you want me to do about it, Mycroft?"

"Look into it."

"No. I've done so. There's no information."

John ignored the conversation in favour of the letter – if it could be called a letter. There was nothing on the paper except a very brief message that looked like it had been written in coloured pencil.

It was a sketch of two human eyes, the symbol for one half, and the word "it".

"What is this?" he asked, looking up again, transferring his gaze between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"A clue," Sherlock said with disdain. "Or it would be, if Mycroft hadn't been getting the same message in the post on a routine basis for the last what... nine years, Mycroft?"

"Nine years," Mycroft agreed.

"What?" John asked. "Why nine years? What does it mean?"

Sherlock looked at him with grey-eyed incredulity.

"Obvious, isn't it?" he asked in the way that John _knew_ indicated he was pleased John hadn't puzzled it out because it meant he got to do the explaining.

John wasn't about to give him the immediate satisfaction, however. He sipped his tea, considering the bizarre message, and at least tried to work it out himself. He knew he was at a disadvantage because not only was he up against Sherlock, he had just woken up and hadn't even had a full cup of tea yet.

Nonetheless, he gave it his best.

"Two eyes," he mused, not looking at Sherlock for any hints, still sipping his tea, "the half symbol, it. Well, two eyes could be two I's, right? Two people? We? I think it would have to be 'we' instead of the plural 'you' or else it wouldn't be an eye, it would just be the letter 'u'. So… we one half? Or maybe to halve? We halve it? That doesn't make much sense, does it? But if you halve something, you're dividing it, right? So, we divide it?"

He risked a glance up and Sherlock was grinning at him, grey eyes bright and dancing, and Mycroft was giving him an appraising look.

"Very good, John!" Sherlock exulted and John felt a stab of pride – he was getting better at this, wasn't he? And without a full morning tea, even.

"But completely wrong," Sherlock continued and John felt himself deflate, giving his grinning spouse a scowl. "Excellent analysis, though, and on barely any caffeine whatsoever. Not an interpretation I had thought of, I must admit."

"Well, then, how do you know I'm wrong and you're right?" John demanded.

"Timing," Sherlock replied.

"Timing?"

"Yes, timing. Your habit of having me repeat myself is endearing but always baffling. I know you can hear me. I'm sitting not two metres from you."

John sighed, waving the paper gently.

"Right, then what does it mean? And what do you mean about timing?"

Sherlock sat up properly and reached a hand out, wiggling his long fingers until John returned the paper to him and then flopping back against his chair's cushions.

"Two eyes, yes, you're right about that, obviously," Sherlock commented. "But you're thinking about this too much. Or not enough. They are two eyes, but it's slightly simpler than your analysis."

John stared at him, trying hard to think, and Sherlock gave a slightly huffy sigh.

"Just 'eyes', John. And we can assign the definite article 'the' as the indefinite articles 'an' and 'a' do not fit grammatically and there is no indication of a possessive, such as 'your' or 'my'. This is under the assumption that our correspondent has a basic grasp of the English language, of course. A risky assumption given the level of education of the general public but with limited information, we must start somewhere."

"The eyes divide it?" John asked. "What does _that_ mean?"

"As far as I know, nothing," Sherlock sniffed and John rolled his eyes. "It's not halve, John, it's _half_."

"Wouldn't half of two eyes be one eye?"

"Yes, except it isn't actually denoting something being one half. If you account for pronunciation differences, or accents, or perhaps just sloppy use of the English language, it's not 'half', it's 'have'."

"The eyes have it?"

"Almost," Sherlock said. "The _ayes_ have it."

John blinked, staring at him.

"As in, an affirmative vote."

"Affirmative vote– _oh_, the _ayes_ have it? Wait, what? Mycroft, why would someone send you that phrase in code written in coloured pencil?"

"As I said, timing. He only gets these when there's a contentious vote in Parliament, generally in the British Parliament, but at the beginning, the Scottish Parliament."

"Still that sometimes," Mycroft said and Sherlock nodded, still watching John.

"Okay, but why?"

"Well, we know the why," Sherlock said dismissively. "Murder, most probably."

"Oh, yes, murder," John said. "What murder?"

Sherlock waved the paper again.

"Before I knew you," he said, and John blinked, because sometimes the time before they'd known each other was forgotten, and Sherlock was not one to revisit old cases when fresh new cases with new puzzles were so much more enticing. "Nine years ago, like I said."

John sighed and looked at Mycroft for an explanation. The older Holmes twitched his eyebrows up in an expression that spoke to John of long suffering patience.

"Nine years ago, the ten-year-old daughter of a Member of Scottish Parliament was kidnapped and presumably murdered shortly before a rather contentious vote. The girl, Kelsi Murray, was the daughter of the sole sitting Independent MSP, James Murray, and we have always believed that the murder was entirely politically motivated in an attempt to force Murray to either abstain for voting or change his vote altogether. He did neither."

John tried to recall the case, but he'd been in Afghanistan at the time, and British politics, especially Scottish politics, had seemed a long way from where he was.

"What's it got to do with you?" John asked Mycroft.

"Mycroft investigated it," Sherlock replied, not bothering to clarify why – if this was a politically motivated murder, John had a pretty good idea that Mycroft would be interested in it. "But it never came to anything, nor did the police investigation."

"Did they ever find her?" John asked.

"No trace," Mycroft sighed. "Nothing. Only these, every time there's a controversial vote. James Murray now sits in the House of Commons here in London. Despite it all, he's maintained a solid political career. Whoever wanted to get to him failed."

"What a waste," John muttered.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "It certainly is. And all we have are these letters."

"This is nothing," Sherlock scoffed. "Never posted from the same place in the UK twice, no return address that isn't faked or a post office box, no hint of the girl's body, no fingerprints on the envelopes, no DNA. The only link is the timing, which we already know is related to the initial murder itself. There isn't anything _here_, Mycroft. You've looked into it, I've looked into it. This isn't someone who wants to be found or acknowledged. This is simply someone who wants to taunt you because you can't solve it. I know you've checked with the detective who was assigned this case in Edinburgh when it first happened, and I know she still gets these as well, at the same time as you, because I have also checked. I _also_ know that hers are not sent from the same post offices as yours. So. What do you want me to do? For all that John seems to think I'm a mind reader, I am not, and I cannot simply guess at who it is. Someone took the girl and most likely killed her and disposed of her and wants you to know he's bested you. That's all. He doesn't care that you don't know who he is."

The matter-of-fact tone of Sherlock's voice made John frown although it didn't really surprise him.

"It shouldn't be allowed to go unpunished," Mycroft said severely.

"No, it should not be _allowed_ to," Sherlock agreed. "But it is. And, as such, is boring. I cannot catch a killer who refuses to be caught, who has taken every precaution against being identified."

"Well, that should tell you he's a professional," John said.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. "Again, not much to go on. What should I do, put out an advert for all professional killers who have not been caught to please come to this address so we can turn them over to the police? I'm sure you can imagine how successful that would be."

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock thrust the paper back at Mycroft.

"I'm on my way to Edinburgh today, Mycroft, and don't think it escaped my notice that you presented me with this now. I'm not interested. I am, in fact, very clearly saying no. I've done what I could, I've looked into it, there's nothing left to find except the girl's body, which has probably been dissolved in lye anyway."

John winced at Sherlock's tone – sometimes he just didn't care. Even after all this time, it was hard to be reminded of that.

"I have a wedding to attend. I am _in_ a wedding. I don't have time for this. I'm not chasing down shadowy killers who leave no clues, not least because I have no means to start locating them, and I also refuse to do so in what is quite a spiffy tux. I paid a hefty sum for that and I intend that my money should not go to waste."

At this, John tried to swallow on a snort of laughter and the quick glance Sherlock cast at him told him he hadn't entirely succeeded.

Mycroft sighed.

"Surely there's _something_," he insisted.

Sherlock paused, then shook his head.

"Do you still have the others?" he asked, glancing at his brother.

"Yes, of course."

"Well then, I will send you round to see someone. She can have a look at the sketches themselves and the colours and perhaps tell you something about the 'artist' or the type of pencil used, but even that's unlikely to be particularly helpful. Her name is Holly Adams and she's an expert."

"Another one of your motley assortment?"

Sherlock flashed a genuinely offended look at Mycroft.

"Motley assortment? Is that any way to refer to John? Have some respect."

John rolled his eyes and privately agreed with his brother-in-law – when he got right down to it, they were an odd bunch. A consulting detective who happened to be a social awkward genius, a former army surgeon, make that _two_ former army surgeons, an Interpol agent who had legally been dead for awhile, a three year old girl who had Sherlock entirely wrapped around her little finger, their sixty-something year old landlady, a nurse on the short-term card ward at St. Mary's and a forensic artist who had made her start by unwittingly drawing a serial killer giving a solo cello performance.

And that _wasn't_ counting Sherlock's homeless network or the myriad other "experts" he consulted on a semi-regular basis.

And somehow, this had all become normal to John.

"She's a forensic artist and works for the police in an official capacity."

"And for you in an unofficial one," Mycroft said, and Sherlock just shrugged. He texted Mycroft her address.

"I'll let her know you're coming round later today. Don't send Anthea, she's rather impersonal. If you want this done, go yourself."

"All right," Mycroft agreed with a put upon look.

"And now, if you please, John and I still have to pack. Plane to catch and all."

"I could have flown you up on the jet," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged again and Mycroft sighed, got up, retrieved his umbrella, and put the envelope back in his coat pocket.

"Text me when Holly doesn't find anything," Sherlock said.

Mycroft gave another sigh, shaking his head.

"Have a good time in Edinburgh."

"I intend to."

"Good-bye, John."

"'Bye, Mycroft. Take care."

The elder Holmes brother nodded and left and Sherlock followed him down the stairs, locking the door behind, then clattering back upstairs as John tossed a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He should at least get some breakfast, since Sherlock seemed to be shirking his breakfast-making duties that day.

Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around John's waist, nuzzling his neck. John sighed pointedly as Sherlock feathered kisses up his jaw line and along the edge of his ear.

"Like you said, we still have to pack."

"_Non_," Sherlock said, the word sending a shudder through John which made Sherlock grin. "_Tu n'as pas besion._"

John thought he understood this as "you don't have to" and tried to hold his own against the French, which Sherlock knew always undid him.

"Yes, I do," he countered.

"_Je l'ai fait pour toi._"

"What?"

"I did it for you, John," Sherlock replied, nibbling at his ear. John reached for the toast that had just finished in the toaster, trying to ignore what was going on behind him.

"When did you do that?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, but Sherlock's hands snaking around the waist of his sweatpants and undoing the drawstring were making it difficult.

"While you were sleeping and ignoring me," Sherlock purred in his ear. "Had to do _something_."

"What about your mess?"

"It will still be a mess later. It's in no rush."

"I need to eat," John said.

"You'll have time. Later. _Viens avec moi._"

John gave in, because he knew he'd lost. He almost always lost. It wasn't such a terrible defeat, though. There were far worse fates.

"Do I trust you to have packed properly for me?" he asked, turning in Sherlock's arms, gaining only a little space to do so.

"You tell me," Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow at him.

John sighed but smiled and Sherlock grinned, pulling him into a triumphant kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Just to be safe, John checked.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed.

"And what is it that you knew, John?" Sherlock asked, lounging on the bed.

"For God's sake, get dressed."

"Hmm," the detective said, idly tracing his long fingers on his bare stomach. "Why?"

"Because we have a plane to catch and we need to leave in two hours."

"It's hardly going to take me two hours to dress, John," Sherlock pointed out. "I may be fastidious, but I'm not inept."

"We still need to shower," John sighed. "And eat. And you need to clean up your mess."

"You haven't told me what it is you knew," Sherlock said, and John didn't fail to note how he was neatly side-stepping the topic of cleaning up his mess in the kitchen.

"I knew you didn't pack properly for me."

"Nonsense, everything you require is in there. Deodorant, razor, toothbrush, even your passport."

"I don't _need_ my passport, but I do need underwear, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his head and gave John an evil grin as only he could do. John returned it with a glare, refusing to be suckered in. Sherlock could change the tone of that grin only slightly and have John utterly distracted again, which he was not going to be.

"You do _not_ need underwear, John," Sherlock contradicted. "You'll be in a kilt."

"First of all, I will not be in a kilt the whole time," John shot back. "Secondly, I don't care how traditional it is, I am _not_ going without pants while wearing my kilt. I think you'd find, if you were so inclined to look and I were so inclined to let you, that _no one_ will be opting for the traditional route."

"I'm not interested in what anyone else may or may not be wearing, John," Sherlock sniffed.

"Well, you have very agile fingers, Sherlock. I know you can dispense of my underwear without problem, so yes, you haven't properly packed for me."

"Fine!" Sherlock said, sitting up in a mock huff. "Be boring."

"I will," John said, fishing out some underwear and packing it, then checking to make sure nothing else was missing.

"I'm going to shower."

"Good," John sighed.

"Are you coming with me?"

"No."

"You _are_ boring."

"It's what I do best."

"Perhaps second best."

John pitched a pair of rolled up socks at him.

"John! Yuck!"

"They're clean, Sherlock!"

"They've been on your feet!"

"And they've been through the wash. Also, who was just sucking on my toes?"

"It's still yuck. They're your _socks._"

"Go shower," John ordered.

Muttering about how John was a doctor and should know better about hygiene, Sherlock strode out. John wasn't fooled – the detective was feigning that huff. Five and a half years of marriage was enough to have taught John to identify Sherlock's real strops. Most of the time, anyway.

He showered after Sherlock and managed to get the detective to clean up his still gently fizzing mess in the kitchen while John made them both something to eat. By some miracle, they made it out the door a little early even with their bags and Sherlock's tuxedo and John's kilt and other accessories, both in their own garment bags.

Sherlock had been utterly delighted upon conducting some research online and discovering that there was a Watson tartan. He had put his foot down about wearing a kilt himself, citing the fact that he was too tall and tall men did not look as good in kilts, which John had privately translated to "I have skinny legs". Truth be told, the image of Sherlock in a kilt made John think he would have looked a bit of a twit, and thankfully Sam was not bothered by anyone's preferences for kilts or not kilts. Even if that person was in the wedding party.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to John to find out that both Sam and Sandra had recent Scottish ancestry – Sam's mother and both sets of Sandra's grandparents. When he'd mentioned this surprise to Sherlock, the detective had looked puzzled that John hadn't known.

Because of course Sherlock had memorized both of their backgrounds and whatever other personal details he could find, so that he felt he knew them. He was an odd mixture of utterly oblivious about personal matters while being a meticulously thorough friend. And he wouldn't have understood why it would have been better – at least more typical – to simply ask both of them rather than hunt down the information himself, probably by hacking into all sorts of legal databases.

Well, so be it. As far as John knew, Sherlock still had his service records, the ones he'd accessed three days after meeting John. John was fairly certain Tricia's had been acquired as well. And that was just the tip of the iceberg with John.

When Sherlock had found out about the kilts and the Watson tartan, he'd thrown himself into a frenzy to track down John's elusive Scottish ancestry – if he even had any, John was pretty sure a lot of English families had tartans, too, but pointing this out to Sherlock had fallen on deaf ears. As it turned out, John did have a great-great aunt who had married into a Scottish family, but she had been a Watson by birth, not by marriage. Nonetheless, Sherlock considered this a victory.

He'd then set his sights on having a kilt made for John at the most unreasonable cost possible, and, for the second time in their marriage, John had found himself in a tailor's being measured and manipulated while Sherlock argued about fits and weights and thread counts and other things about which John knew nothing.

The end result was a very good kilt, however, complete with the rest of what John mentally termed "the gear", which had names he didn't know. Sherlock probably did know them, but was so distracted by how much he enjoyed looking at John's calves in the kilt that he didn't bother with corrections.

It had gotten to the point where John had to insist on not "just trying on the kilt to make sure it fits" when they were at home, pointing out that he didn't want to damage it before the actual wedding.

He hoped Sherlock could keep his hands to himself long enough to get through the ceremony and at least some of the reception. John had no problems with a good free meal and an open bar.

He had warned Sam about having Sherlock as his best man – the only groomsman, actually, as there was only one bridesmaid, Sandra's older sister, Joanna. John found himself hoping Joanna was like her sister, who could hold her own fairly well against Sherlock. John had worried, at first, that Sandra's ability to deal with Sherlock had been professional, not personal, but she was not so different in her attitude outside of work, cheerful, competent, understanding and patient.

Precisely the kind of person Sam needed, John thought. If they'd had any rocky times dealing with his past, John didn't know about it. He'd initially been wary but had also decided it was none of his business.

Besides, he usually had his hands full with Sherlock.

Who was grouching about the fact that they could not fly business class on an eighty-minute flight. For anyone else, John would have rolled his eyes, but he understood – academically if not through actual experience – how uncomfortable it was for the detective to be cramped in such a small seat with the limited amount of leg room.

"Swing your legs up," John said. "It's a bit better anyway."

Sherlock pushed up the armrest that separated their seats and bent his legs over John's. It still wasn't ideal, but it was better. Until Sherlock began to fuss and shift around and then sighed, abandoning the position altogether and switching himself around so he could lean up against John, his feet pressed against the side of the cabin. It looked uncomfortable, but so did most of the positions he folded his body into.

He snuggled against John, who wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, in part to avoid having it pinned and falling asleep, in part so he could stroke Sherlock's arm and shoulder lightly with his fingers. Sherlock returned the favour by making little circles on John's knee. As long as he stayed there, John thought, it would be all right.

Sherlock wiggled around a bit, settling down more, his head resting on John's shoulder.

"Comfy?"

"Only in the loosest sense of the word," Sherlock sniffed. "I see no reason for any of the airlines that fly from London to Edinburgh not to offer business class."

"It's less than an hour and a half. They probably do it to fit more people on the planes. Make more money."

"I'm hardly concerned with their financial solvency, John. I _am_ concerned by the lack of room and mediocre economy cabin service."

John just grinned and kissed Sherlock's dark curls.

In the airport, they ran into the Lestrades coming off another flight and split a cab with them to their hotel on the Royal Mile, within walking distance of the castle, where the wedding was taking place. John chatted with Lynn about her students, while the DI picked Sherlock's brain about some case. John would have to put his foot down about cases once they'd arrived at the hotel, but let it go in the cab. He chose his battles with Sherlock and Lestrade and because of that, he usually won, too.

Sam met them in the hotel lobby, grinning, looking happier than John had ever seen him do, green eyes gleaming.

"Good, you're here," he said to Sherlock and John after greeting the Lestrades. "We're in room five, come find me once you've checked in. Sandra's up at the castle already – she's stolen my Interpol badge and is probably using it to harangue someone into getting something done. At any rate, I have to show you where we are, introduce you to Joanna and we have to run through the whole thing. Then there's rehearsal dinner."

John grinned when Sherlock just nodded and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon watching his husband completely out of his depth and no one acknowledging that. Sherlock was used to being the one buzzing with energy, darting about here and there, everyone else scrambling to keep up, but always for cases. John sat in one of the chairs that had already been set out for the ceremony the following day and didn't bother trying to fight down a smile as Sherlock responded to this entirely new situation by giving up and doing what he was told. John wondered if it was the first wedding he'd attended as an adult that hadn't been his own. Certainly it was the first time he was in an actual wedding party.

Their own wedding had been quite subdued by comparison, of course, and Sherlock had felt far more in control because it was theirs. It had taken less than ten minutes from start to finish and then perhaps another half an hour for some photographs and that was it. John had known that there was not way of getting Sherlock to agree to a big wedding, and eloping to the courthouse, while perhaps not the most romantic event in the history of civilization, had helped them keep Mycroft from finding out beforehand. John still wasn't entirely sure how they'd pulled that off, but they had, and the expression on Mycroft's face alone had made the whole thing worth it.

John had to admit, though, that he was looking forward to getting to see Sherlock wearing that tux all day. They had both worn suits to their own wedding, as it had been more casual, and Sherlock had then sent the suits to the cleaners and purchased proper garment bags for them, so that they hung at the back of their closet, protected from the dust and the light. Because Sherlock was a secret sentimentalist who just wouldn't own up and John was open about his soppiness, they wore the suits on their anniversaries if they went out to dinner. John took it as a good sign that they still fit.

Still, for all that Sherlock was enthusiastic about John in a kilt, John felt the same way about the tailored tuxedo Sherlock had had made for himself. There was no denying it – a man who might look like a twit in a kilt looked positively delectable in a tux.

While Sandra commandeered the proceedings, including Sam, Sherlock, Joanna and the officiant, John sat and chatted with Sam's mother, Elaine, and his sister, Marian. He had to catch himself when they called Sam "Gabe" or "Gabriel", reminding himself that was Sam's actual first name. His brother, Richard, wasn't there, and John didn't blame Sam for that. He'd met Richard once and had understood immediately why they didn't get on or speak often. This wasn't a Sherlock and Mycroft sort of situation. Richard, in John's opinion, was a git. This surprised John, given that Elaine and Marian were both lovely, but he knew some people were just nasty. He'd dealt with his fair share in the army.

His father wasn't there, either, and John wasn't certain what the story was. He had never asked, because he understood about dicey family relationships and had never appreciated people enquiring in depth about Harry, unless they were people he knew well. Or Sherlock – but Sherlock had not so much enquired as told John the nature of John's relationship with his sister.

After all was said and done and they were back in their hotel room, bags unpacked, suits hung carefully in the closet, the telly on in the background, John lounging on the bed, Sherlock crawled up beside him, bracing one hand on either side of John's shoulders and leaned in for a kiss.

"You really should try your kilt on, John. Just to make sure, for tomorrow."

John swatted his upper arm.

"It fits fine and you know it."

"You won't have to wear it for long," Sherlock purred, nipping his ear.

John knew he'd lost – second time that day – but held out for a few more minutes anyway.

"We have to stay the whole reception tomorrow then," he said.

"Anything you want," Sherlock murmured between kisses on his neck.

"Anything I want?" John repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Mm-hmm."

"Likely story."

He felt Sherlock grin against his skin and gave in. The detective didn't need telling – he always knew – and clasped John's hands, tugging him to his feet and divesting him quickly of his jeans before he opened the closet and pulled out the garment bag with the kilt and passed it off to John.


	3. Chapter 3

This was surprisingly more enjoyable than he had anticipated. Given that most people were tedious, it stood to reason that this tediousness should increase exponentially with large groups. Theoretically, the increase should be linear, not exponential, but somehow dull people seemed to feed off one another's banality and cause it to grow unchecked.

In those situations, the best thing to do was leave as quickly as possible with some cutting remarks. It worked well on cases, and he usually had all the information he needed long before the police had caught up with him because it did take longer to speak than to think. And he often had to repeat himself, switching to shorter words.

This was not a case, however, and Lestrade's presence was balanced by the complete lack of Anderson. In Sherlock's mind, the lack of Anderson outside of a situation where he could mock the other man's inabilities made for a good day.

He was inclined to admit, should anyone have asked, that this day was made better by the nature of the events. This was, he reflected, the first proper wedding he had ever attended in his adult life. Meaning that it was the first that he had not been dragged to as a younger man by his family. He had attended the wedding of some cousin when he had been in university, and then some other cousin a year or so after he'd graduated. Past that, he had resisted going to any more because family functions were trying at best, not in the least because they involved Mycroft.

Tricia and Henry had gone off to some Caribbean island to get married, choosing to elope in more or less the same way as John and Sherlock had, although Tricia had told John beforehand. For them, marriage seemed more of a practical decision, although Sherlock gauged – accurately, he knew – that Tricia was happy with her choice and so was Henry. This was good; he did not want to have to have words with Tricia's husband regarding the necessity of ensuring that she was content. Despite the fact that he was dull, at least outwardly – Sherlock suspected a strong ruthless streak when he was on the job – he seemed to complement Tricia nicely and Sherlock left it at that. If she wanted normal, that was her decision.

He had never been in a wedding party, either. That had been interesting. So much ceremony. Where did it all come from? Why did people retain some traditions and not others? What was the meaning behind all of it? He resolved to research this, then dismissed that idea. It was irrelevant information since it did not pertain to a case. Although, he supposed with the amount of cases that were motivated by jealousy, this knowledge could become useful.

He wavered on this point while sipping champagne and watching John dance with Sandra. John was grinning and so was Sandra, and they both looked like they were enjoying themselves quite thoroughly. Sherlock contemplated John thoughtfully. He really had no idea how irresistible he was in that kilt, although Sherlock had noted John eyeing him up in the tuxedo several times. In Sherlock's opinion, John was the perfect height and build for a kilt and had extraordinarily sexy calves. Perhaps he'd buy more kilts for the doctor and encourage him to wear them. This may mean preventing John from leaving the flat, but this was not necessarily a bad idea.

He swept over the guests in the Queen Anne Building. He appreciated the fact that the occupant limit was low for this sort of thing, only eighty people, because it meant fewer strangers with whom to interact. And there were more than enough people here to keep him entertained, deducing their life histories, evaluating the little stories they told themselves about who they were or what motivated them. He felt as long as kept this to himself, John could not complain. And it was fun. Rarely did he have such a large pool of people from which to choose.

"Worried?" a voice asked from behind him and Sam stepped up next to him, a glass of champagne in his hand. Sherlock glanced over and the groom grinned, green eyes bright. He was dressed in a kilt as well, of course, but in a different tartan. There was a Mitchell tartan apparently, which Sam had chosen for the occasion. A number of the men were in kilts, although some, like Sherlock, had opted out of this for their own reasons. Sandra's father was one, and Sherlock spotted others in varying degrees of fancy suits. He felt quite spiffy in his tux.

"I should point out that the woman you just married has taken up dancing with another man," Sherlock replied, gesturing to the dance floor where John was spinning Sandra and she was laughing. They had always got on, ever since they had first met when Sherlock had been in the hospital and had, in fact, been unconscious.

"I'm devastated," Sam replied with a grin.

"Oh clearly."

Sam watched the dancing couple for a moment, then glanced back at Sherlock, sipping his champagne thoughtfully.

"So, tell me, any advice for recently married man?"

Sherlock frowned pensively, considering this. No one had ever asked for his advice concerning relationships before. It was an interesting development. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't certain why he hadn't been asked – as a genius, he was in a far better position to offer relevant insights into his husband's behaviours.

There were a fair number of things he had learned or deduced over the course of the past five and a half years, although he was uncertain which were specific to John and which were more general. And he had limited experience with women and certainly no experience in intimate relationships with them, to say nothing of being married to one. That must surely be different and he felt that John was a very unique man, unlike anyone Sherlock had ever met. It was very possible Sam felt the same about Sandra, however. Sherlock could not judge the accuracy in that, because he had not met everyone Sam had ever met. It was therefore possible that Sam was right.

He sipped his champagne and watched John and Sandra dancing as he thought. He and Sam were a bit alike in some respects, so perhaps he could give advice based on those similarities.

"Do the washing up once in awhile," he commented. "And be sure to call if you're out of the country overnight."

Sam laughed, shaking his head.

"Thanks," he replied, and Sherlock felt he detected a modicum of sarcasm in the younger man's voice. "I'll keep that in mind."

"If you require further assistance, you need only ask."

Sam grinned.

"There he is!" a voice said from behind them and Lestrade joined them, beaming, a glass of red wine in his hand. "Congratulations, Sam!"

"Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade raised his wine glass slightly to the other man, then glanced around at the dancers and the people still seated at the round tables, chatting and sipping their drinks and eating. The music and the sound of voices and laughter mingled so that the latter seemed to become part of the melody, giving it more life and depth.

"I have to say, this is a far sight better than your funeral," Lestrade commented.

Sam snorted, holding his champagne glass away from himself, pressing a fist against his lips to keep himself from laughing but unable to keep his shoulders from shaking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, is that appropriate?" he asked.

"Wait, wait," Lestrade said, fishing out his phone. "You need to say that again. I have to get it on record. Sherlock Holmes asking if something is appropriate. Socially appropriate, too!"

Sherlock sighed and Sam laughed out loud now, shaking his head.

"Well, I wasn't at the funeral," he pointed out. "But I can't imagine many people get to do it in that order. Funeral and then wedding. Sherlock, you were there. Is this better?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again at the question with an obvious answer.

"There were far more people there," he commented by way of reply. "Although the quality and tone was far less jovial."

"Well good to know that no one was celebrating my death with dancing and cake and drinks," Sam commented. He raised his glass to Lestrade and Sherlock. "Cheers to a better party."

"Cheers," Lestrade echoed.

"Indeed," Sherlock said.

"Where are you going for your honeymoon?" Lestrade asked.

"Greece, next month," Sam replied. "In about four weeks. Sandra couldn't get the full two weeks off before then."

"Should be nice at this time of year," Lestrade commented.

"We're looking forward to it," Sam said with a grin. Sherlock only raised his eyebrows; John had explained that, as a wedding gift, paying for the trip was probably too extravagant, which only served to reinforce to Sherlock that John really did not have a good grasp on how much money they had. But he conceded, because John was generally right about these sorts of things. He had, however, upgraded their flights to first class without informing them, which should result in a pleasant surprise at the airport.

If he couldn't fly business class from London to Edinburgh, then _someone_ was going to enjoy the benefits of proper air travel.

"Lynn and I went there a few years back," Lestrade said. "She said if she's teaching history, she may as well really know what it is that she's teaching. We loved it, great weather, great food, brilliant all around."

"Where is Lynn?" Sam asked, glancing around the room.

"Oh, chatting with your mum," Lestrade replied, pointing to the head table where Lynn Lestrade was, indeed, speaking with Elaine Mitchell. "Once she found out your mum is a retired teacher, there was no stopping her."

"Is she planning on retiring soon?" Sam asked.

Lestrade shook his head, sipping his wine. Sherlock felt outnumbered by the kilt wearers – despite his height, which was close to Sherlock's but not quite reaching it, Lestrade had opted for a kilt. Sherlock had no idea what tartan he was wearing or whether or not he had any Scottish ancestry, but it hardly seemed to matter here. He hoped John wouldn't comment on Lestrade's height, or Sam's for that matter, because Sherlock did not feel the need to justify his decision in more detail. He'd look ridiculous in a kilt and was not about to give John something else to laugh at.

"Not for another ten years," Lestrade said. "They're talking shop, I think. I'd intervene, but I'm more than guilty of that myself, as she likes to point out." He redirected his attention to the dance floor a moment. "Oi, Sherlock, John can't half dance, can he? I didn't know he was so good."

"When would you have had the opportunity to learn?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "It's not as though any of our cases require dancing. Nor can I imagine a situation in which they would. At least not one that would involve you having to be there."

Sam laughed and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John is quite a good dancer," Sherlock continued. "We both are."

Lestrade looked surprised and Sam grinned.

"Are we going to get to see some of your moves?" Lestrade asked. "You could stop him monopolizing the bride, give the rest of us a chance. Or maybe teach the rest of us a thing or two, if you're as good as you say."

"I'm always as good as I say," Sherlock pointed out. "But we do not dance together."

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look.

"No? Why not?"

Sherlock sighed. It was obvious, wasn't it? Judging by the look on Sam's face, he'd figured it out at least.

"Because we both learned to lead," he explained. "And neither of us is comfortable learning to follow."

"That about sums you up, yes," Sam said, not quite under his breath. Sherlock shot him a look and received an innocent one in return. He tried to ignore Lestrade's snort of laughter at the comment.

"Until such time as John concedes to learning to dance from the other side or until dancing is somehow made more equal, then we do not dance." He didn't mention the dancing they'd done on their own wedding day, in their flat, with no music, although it didn't really qualify as dancing rather than gliding about the flat, laughing and occasionally stumbling as they locked one another into kisses.

"You could learn," Lestrade pointed out.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock sniffed. John was the shorter man so it was naturally up to him to learn to follow. Obviously.

The song ended and John bowed extravagantly to Sandra, who was laughing.

"Ah, good, my opportunity," Lestrade said.

"I don't think so," Sherlock replied.

"What, you're going to cut in on me?" Lestrade asked with a gleam in his eyes.

"No, I believe your wife is," Sherlock replied and pointed. Lynn was making her way toward them, eyes fixed on her husband, moving easily through the small crowd.

"Enough standing about and chatting, Greg," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Come on, sweep me off of my feet."

"How could I refuse?" Lestrade answered and passed his wine glass to Sherlock who took it without comment. He offered his arm to his wife who accepted it and flashed a smile at Sherlock and Sam.

"Don't mind if I steal my husband, boys," she said. "It's not every day I get to dance with a man in a kilt."

Sam laughed and Sherlock arched his eyebrows up. So it wasn't just him.

As they moved toward the dance floor, John started making his way back to Sherlock. Sam put his nearly empty champagne glass aside on an empty table.

"I do believe I'm going to dance with my wife. See you later, Sherlock. Enjoy the party."

"I am already doing so," Sherlock replied and Sam grinned, nodding at John as they passed, and making his way toward Sandra.

"For me?" John asked, nodding at the glass of wine in Sherlock's left hand.

"Lestrade's," Sherlock replied, and set it down where Sam had put his aside.

"Well then, let's go get some for me," John said. "And I need some food, too. Don't suppose I can pull you out onto the dance floor?"

"Food and wine are far superior ideas, John," Sherlock replied and John grinned.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Even more so with your company," Sherlock said and John flashed him a surprised and pleased look, pausing to kiss him quickly, then snagged Sherlock's free hand and led the detective through the crowd toward the bar and the buffet tables.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I had a request for someone to draw John in a kilt (stat!) so if anyone is a proficient artist and would like to tackle this, I would also love see it!

* * *

><p>On Sunday afternoon, John left Sherlock to his own devices at the hotel – always a risky prospect, but he didn't want company and Sherlock wouldn't go with him in any case – and went to the cemetery where Jamie was buried. Before he'd left London, Tricia had given him twenty pounds and John had combined that with some of his own money to buy some flowers on the way to visit his old friend.<p>

He always felt a bit strange doing this, because it was not as though Jamie was actually there, hanging about underground and able to hear him. It seemed a touch morbid to go talk to a tombstone, but John couldn't imagine not doing it when he had the chance. He had gone the first time they'd been to Edinburgh, on their honeymoon, slipping out only briefly and Sherlock had let him do so without protest. The second time, when dealing with David's abduction case, he hadn't had time and Sherlock had whisked them back to London with just long enough of a pause at the train station to actually purchase tickets. No time then for any visits whatsoever. Not that John had complained – he hadn't wanted to hang about any more than Sherlock had when Mycroft had begun to deal with his superiors.

John found Jamie's grave without any difficulties even though he had only been there once. Once had been enough to memorize the location.

It was a pleasant early April day with a hint of warmth in the light breeze and the sun shining in a nearly cloudless sky, and John may have appreciated this if he weren't in a cemetery, visiting the grave of a friend. There were several other people there doing the same thing he was, but he was relatively alone when he got to Jamie's plot. In the near distance there were a couple of works filling in a recent grave and arranging the mess of flowers on the freshly churned dirt.

_This is so depressing,_ John thought. Depressing but necessary.

He put the flowers down on the faint grassy mound and read the tombstone again – not that he needed to, he knew the name and dates by heart.

"Hi, Jamie," he said. "It's John."

He paused, then sighed.

_Am I waiting for an answer?_ he thought. John shook his head and reached out, touching the grave stone lightly. Then he crouched down, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and glanced around again. He was completely alone now, the workers having finished their task and having gone onto the next one. He could see them walking down the path, chatting, shovels slung onto their shoulders.

"I was here for a wedding," John heard himself saying. "Friends of ours. Thought I'd come by and– what? See how you're doing? That's really stupid, isn't it? Dammit."

He dropped his head into one hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose. John stayed that way a moment, then raised his head again.

"Anyway, Tee sends her love. She's doing well, still at Portland in London. You should see Jo–" He cut himself off, cursing his stupidity, but then, what did it matter? Jamie had never known Josephine because Josephine had not been born until long after he was dead. And, had he survived, she may never have been born.

_Is that the trade off? _John wondered. _It seems so unfair._

How would he have chosen? But then, it was not his choice. It was no one's choice.

"We both miss you," John settled on saying. "A lot. It doesn't seem fair – it's not fair. A few centimetres to the left, you'd still be here, right? A few centimetres to the right and I wouldn't. Godammit, Jamie, it was so stupid. And it just goes on and on. I mean, if you could look around this place–"

John did so, making an empty gesture with an open palm.

"It just doesn't seem to end. Ha!" he laughed bitterly. "Of course it ended for you, for everyone who's here, but the stupidity, it just keeps going, doesn't it? Not the kind of stupidity you used to talk about, the driving over spikes and being amazed that tires can't take it. Not the stupidity I'd deal with, or Tee, someone tripping down a set of steps and cracking a patella or spraining an ankle. No, the whole basic human stupidity. Here, there, our side, their side, does it matter?"

He fell silent again, chewing on his lower lip. He could almost hear Jamie's voice in his head, admonishing him.

_You lived. Tricia lived. A lot of people lived because of you. You came back. She came back. She has a daughter. You made a difference in the life of someone who trusted maybe two other people before meeting you. She made a difference in the life of a man who treats her like gold, who respects her. What more could I want for her?_

"How about you?" John whispered in return. But he had no idea, not really. Whatever Jamie and Tricia may have had had been lost, but there was no telling what that might have been. Would it have gone any further? If it had, would it still be going or would it have ended?

He felt they should have been given at least a chance to find out.

"You know, the wedding we were here for, the groom, he died, too. Or at least we thought he did. He should have done. Bloody miracle he survived. We didn't know for months. I don't suppose you could pull off the same thing?"

Maybe this grave was empty too.

But why? There was no point. And Tricia had seen his body. He had been shot right through the neck, through his trachea and his carotid artery. No chance of survival.

"So bloody stupid," he muttered again.

Then he realized he would have to go back to the hotel in this dark mood and it made him feel pointlessly guilty that he'd subject Sherlock to it. For all the times Sherlock had pulled sulking and bitching and irritation on him, maybe he could take it from John once in awhile.

John drew a deep breath, held it for ten counts, then let it out very slowly.

"Sorry, Jamie," he said. "Still doesn't sit too well with me."

What was a shoulder wound that acted up once in awhile compared to this? Especially since he had Sherlock to help take care of it, to wrap those long-fingered, dextrous hands around it when it really hurt.

"I'm still at the surgery," John said, as though the grass and the granite cared. "Sometimes I think about getting a job as a surgeon again, but the hours are better, gives me something stable. I don't get called out at all hours, which is good, because I have enough of that with Sherlock. He's still – good. Well, he's still Sherlock. Good can probably only loosely apply. But he hasn't lit anything on fire recently, although he did manage to blow something up before we left. Pretty minor, not even any holes in the ceiling."

John managed a small smile.

"What else can I say?" he asked ruefully. "You don't care about the news. You don't care about anything. Not any more. I miss hearing you sing."

He said the last bit without intending to and realized how true it was. Jamie had always been a singer with a rich tenor he used for the Scottish and English folk songs his mother had taught him.

_Enough_, he thought. This whole thing was probably going to leave him in a foul mood as it was for at least two days. He suddenly didn't want to go back to the hotel but nor did he want to stay here, crouched next to the grave of someone long dead, someone he'd never see or hear again. John stood up, shaking his head.

"Bye, Jamie. Until next time."

Because despite the fact that it made him feel like crap, he knew he'd come back the next time he was in Edinburgh. And every other time after that if he had the chance.

John walked away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and ambled the paved pathways, trying to shake off some of the irritation. But the other grave markers made him more tense and he found himself looking for individuals who had lived long and hopefully full lives. He made it a sort of dark game, trying to find people who had lived over eighty years, then realized that many of these people would have seen things like World War Two and would have lost a lot of people to the same stupidity to which he and Tricia had lost Jamie.

Worse were the children's graves, of course, and there was something disturbing about the fact that the tombstones were smaller, as if to call attention to it. John avoided those and, while trying to do so, was stopped up short by a pair of tombstones that obviously belonged to a married couple. They had both died in their eighties, within two months of each other.

He stared at it, then felt sick when he realized this would be him and Sherlock one day.

If one of them didn't die of something else before they reached that age – illness, accident, a bullet. Given Sherlock's lifestyle, any of these things were possible.

"Okay, John, get the hell out of here," he told himself. He was surprised at how jumpy and irritated he was this time. It hadn't been so bad last time – more sadness, less anxiety. He felt cheated by himself – he'd just been to a wedding and that should help offset some of this ridiculous unease. But when he tried remember how much he'd enjoyed that day, all he could think about was that everyone there would end up like everyone here, one way or another.

"Dammit, you're melodramatic," he muttered under his breath. John left in a hurry, walking away from the cemetery up some street, getting himself deliberately lost so he couldn't trace his way back. He was glad he wasn't with Sherlock who was probably almost as familiar with the layout of Edinburgh's roads as he was with London's – and who would chastise John for wasting energy on unnecessary emotional upheaval. Of course everyone would die, he'd point out. It was the one consistent thing about life. And he'd be irritatingly logical and rational and John would start a row because that was the kind of mood he was in.

He stopped out and let out a deep sigh, then kept going, hands still in his pockets, until he felt a bit more himself, calmer, less out of sorts and less likely to pick a fight with his husband when he got back to the hotel. John stopped at a likely looking café and bought himself a coffee, then went back onto the street and hailed a cab to take him back downtown.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was sprawled on the couch where John had left him, absorbed by some book, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent and resting along the top of the back of the couch. This looked uncomfortable, since he was lying down, but even more uncomfortable was the fact that he was holding the book up, directly above his face, his arms slightly extended, bent to keep the book at the right distance. John wondered if Sherlock would notice if and when his hands and arms fell asleep. Probably he would just dismiss this as unnecessary biological input.<p>

"You're back," he said when John came in.

John sighed quietly and tried not to roll his eyes. Normally he didn't mind this kind of comment – it was Sherlock would who note their obviousness – but he wasn't in the mood today.

"You don't say," he muttered.

At this, Sherlock lowered his book and gave him a puzzled look. Then the detective sighed and marked his page with an envelope, moving with what John considered needless fastidiousness, before putting the novel aside. He swung himself to seated in one smooth movement that someone of his height lying in that position shouldn't have been able to accomplish. Sometimes, John thought Sherlock was a secret yoga instructor who had managed to keep this under wraps for the seven years in which they'd known each other.

"You're upset, but you deliberately went to the cemetery knowing it would upset you."

John stared at Sherlock. He really, _really_ didn't need a lecture right now.

"Yeah, well, a friend of mine was shot and died, Sherlock. It's upsetting. Sorry if me being upset interferes with the oh-so-important work you're obviously doing. Sorry if _sometimes_ I don't want to be logical and cold and–"

John bit his tongue hard, swallowing on any more because he'd already said quite enough. He expected some reaction from Sherlock, hurt or annoyance or even a cool explanation as to why John was overreacting.

Sherlock just watched him calmly, his grey eyes level, his fingers interlaced and his hands resting between his knees.

This was more annoying.

John flopped into one of the chairs facing the couch and put his feet on the low coffee table, slouching down.

He reminded himself Sherlock hadn't had anyone close to him die. The nearest he'd come to that was Sam, and Sherlock had never believed Sam had died and had been proven right in any case. It didn't seem fair, until John remembered part of the reason he hadn't lost anyone he'd cared about was that there were so few people whom he genuinely liked, let alone loved.

"Maybe I'll just have a nap," he muttered, pulling his legs back from the table. At least that way he could lie down, close his eyes and completely ignore Sherlock while waiting for the for bad mood to settle. It was highly unlikely that Sherlock would join him. He almost never slept during the day unless he was ill or injured.

Sherlock gave him another evaluating glance with that same calm look in his eyes.

"All right," he agreed and picked up his book again. He opened it to his page and put the envelope aside on the table, turning his attention from John without further comment.

John frowned.

The envelope was addressed to Sherlock, but it wasn't some old scrap he'd just had tucked into the book as a makeshift bookmark.

It was addressed to him here at the hotel.


	5. Chapter 5

"What is that?" John demanded.

Sherlock glanced back up from his book and then down at the envelope at which John was pointing.

"A letter," he said in his "obvious" voice.

"Yes, I can see that. Who from?"

"From whom," Sherlock corrected and John restrained himself from throwing his arms up in disgust – just.

It was stamped and postmarked, so it had obviously been posted, not just dropped off at the hotel. John picked it up and checked the postmark date – it had been sent early the previous week so it had probably been waiting for Sherlock when they had arrived on Friday, which meant whoever had sent it knew what Sherlock's travel plans had been and where he was staying.

There was no return address on the front so John flipped it over. It was not an address he recognised and while he knew that Sherlock's contacts were many and varied and tended to crop up in unexpected places, the fact that there was no name and only a PO box number in Liverpool raised his hackles. He hadn't forgotten about the letter Mycroft had shown them on Friday.

John flipped open the already unsealed envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. He was certain he didn't need to look at it to know what it contained, but Sherlock was watching him with an evaluating expression in his grey eyes, waiting to see what John would do, so John unfolded the paper.

He was glad he did – the message wasn't entirely the same.

There was the same sentence – if it could be called that – with the two eyes, the symbol for one half and the word "it". "The ayes have it", yet again. But there was a new sentence underneath.

A capital "U", a stick figure drawing of a woman with a triangular skirt and crudely drawn pigtails – the hair probably indicated it was a woman, John thought, rather than a man in a kilt, and this was an important distinction in Scotland – and the word "it" again.

"Sherlock," John said with a warning tone in his voice, waving the letter once for emphasis.

Sherlock shrugged, putting his book aside again, marking the page by turning it down, which John knew he hated doing but preferred to setting the book down open faced, which could wreck the spine.

"Don't you–" John started. "Aren't you interested? I mean, what the hell is he talking about now?"

"Am I interested? Not particularly. He's been sending messages for nine years, John, like I said . He _wants_ us to run about uselessly trying to solve this because it would be a waste of our time. It's impossible to examine a crime scene when there isn't one."

"But you also said you thought she was dead, the girl."

"Yes, I do," Sherlock said. "So, yes, presumably there's somewhere that she was been buried – unless, of course, as I also said, she was dissolved in lye. Perhaps cremated and with her remains scattered. John, he doesn't want us to _find_ her. He just wants to cause a distraction."

"From what?" John asked, getting it grammatically correct this time. "You're not working on anything at the moment!"

"I assume the distraction isn't meant for me, but for her father. I don't know if Mycroft informs Murray every time he receives a letter. I don't even know if they know each other, although it seems likely, given that Mycroft investigated this case when it first happened. Even if Mycroft doesn't tell Murray whenever he is sent a new letter, if the investigation was reopened, then he would. So, logically, whoever is sending these is attempting to divert Murray's attention from current political matters of personal ones."

"But why now? It's been nine years!"

"He remains a key Independent MP, John. Getting him to miss this vote could be important."

John paused, letter still in hand.

"Since when do you care so much about politics?" he asked. "You can't even name the Prime Minister!"

"I don't need to – that's what search engines are for. But _events_, John, those are important. They often cause some kind of fall out, occasionally criminal."

"But you still haven't answered why now. Nine years ago, Murray didn't miss the vote even though his daughter was missing. If it didn't work then, why would it work now?"

"Nine years ago there was still the possibility that she was alive. He could hold onto that. Now, the chances are so small as to be effectively nothing. What do you imagine would be more distracting, the hope that your daughter was still alive or the desperate need to find her body?"

John opened his mouth and shut it again.

"How can you say that so casually?" he asked.

"I'm simply pointing out the most likely reasoning behind the motivation for sending the letters now," Sherlock said. "I am _not_ condoning it."

John sighed, propping his feet against the table again.

"Okay, but _you've _never gotten a letter before, right? Only Mycroft and the detective here who headed the case back when it first happened?"

"Correct."

"So why you? Why now? Why here?"

"The second sentence, John. What do you think it means?"

John looked back at the paper, frowning, and took a deep breath, trying to shake away some of his tension. This wasn't helping his bad mood and he suspected that would make him less likely to get this whole thing right. He wasn't particularly interested in solving a stupid cipher puzzle written in purple coloured pencil at the moment, but Sherlock was watching him with an expectant look, so he gave it a go.

"Well, the 'u' is obvious. I mean, it's you," he said, pointing at Sherlock who nodded. "And so is 'it'. But the image of the woman – well I guess it could be the girl? What was her name?"

"Kelsi Murray," Sherlock replied.

"I suppose it could be her, but the sentence doesn't make sense. You Kelsi it? That's not just grammatically incorrect, it's stupid."

At this, Sherlock's lips twitched as he repressed a smile and John glared, forcing his husband to hold up his hands in a rare placating gesture.

"Not you, John. If that were the message, it would be stupid. You're right. So it's not."

"Okay, but it needs to be a verb, Sherlock, and 'girl' or 'Kelsi' aren't verbs. I mean, 'you girl it'? What? Does he think you're effeminate?"

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes but there was an amused expression on his features.

"I don't know, John. I have no idea who he is. His opinion of me is hardly relevant. You're actually almost on the right track but once again, you're over thinking it. You need a verb – yes. Consider the word 'girl'."

John frowned.

"Okay, I am," he said after a moment. "But nothing's coming to mind. I mean, other than 'girl', which the victim is. And it's something to do with you, not her, right?"

"Correct."

John sighed, shaking his head at the letter and the stupid purple writing.

"I give up."

"No!" Sherlock admonished. "Don't give up!"

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock seemed genuinely upset at the possibility that John would be considering letting him explain. Sherlock rubbed his palms together, giving John an encouraging nod.

"Think about the origins of the word," he suggested. "Synonyms."

"Um, well, we're in Scotland. Lass? But that's not a verb either. Unless it's just supposed to sound like that, but I think something like 'you lasso it' is even stupider. Do you even know what a lasso is?"

Sherlock sighed and gave John a pointed look.

"Fine, fine," John said, feeling a twinge of amusement despite himself. "Okay, let me think. Synonyms, yes?"

He chewed on his lower lip, evaluating the possibilities. None of them were verbs, though, or even sounded like verbs. Woman, chick – that he knew from some of the Americans he'd served with – babe, lady, dame, wench – but that was an old one– _hold on–_

"Oh, you're bloody kidding, right?" John asked, looking back up sharply. Sherlock cocked a dark eyebrow.

"Maid?" John asked. "Really? You made it? Who the hell is this idiot?"

Sherlock sat back with a laugh, shaking his head.

"Well, done, John."

"It's bloody stupid," John protested with a growl. "Sherlock, he's killed some poor girl and he's making up stupid codes and posting them in letters? What the hell?"

He slapped the letter onto the coffee table for emphasis and sat back, scowling.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "It is stupid. And he wants us to have no more information than what he provides. He doesn't want us to find her. Clearly I've made it to Edinburgh. And I came for a wedding, not to be lured into a case that needs solving but does not want it. So, no, I'm not considering taking this case."

John hesitated.

"But–" he said, gesturing at the letter. "You– Sherlock, you bloody love serial killers who play games."

"Serial killers, yes. Professional assassins, no. Need I remind you what happened with the last one?"

"No," John said shortly. "Please don't."

"This is not some game he wants to play for recognition, John. He's not a genius. These codes are actually very simple." He sniffed. "Jo could probably come up with them. And Holly says that there's nothing distinctive about the pencil styles or drawings."

"What? How do you know?"

"She texted me," Sherlock replied reasonably. He opened the text as and held it up for John to read as proof.

_Regular pencil crayons and poorly drawn, nothing special. Sorry no info._

"Would you like me to wait on his whims?" Sherlock asked, putting his phone away.

"Yes," John replied bluntly.

Sherlock looked back up, surprise flashing across his features.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Yes," John said again. "Yes, I want you to wait on his whims."

"John, that makes no sense. The case won't get solved."

"You don't know that. Maybe he _wants_ you to find her. Like you said, it might be more distracting for Murray now. What would be more distracting than actually locating her body?"

"The unfulfilled promise of locating her body," Sherlock replied.

John leaned forward with a heavy sigh, pressing his right fist into his left palm.

"Sherlock, his daughter is dead. Murdered. Of course he wants to know where she is. I mean, it's a horrible thing to know, but some maybe he'd get some peace from it. It's not much, but it's something."

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look and it was a real puzzled look, John could tell. Knowing that really didn't help Sherlock's next comment.

"She's dead either way and he knows that. What difference would it make?"

John stared.

"What difference– Sherlock, what? What difference? Sorry, you– Please tell me you're not serious. A man's daughter was murdered and you want to know why he'd want to know for sure? I mean– what?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John beat him to it, cutting him off.

"You really don't get it, do you? Dead is dead, right? No, not a chance, Sherlock, not a chance! Dead is _not_ just dead! Not if it's someone you love! It's always someone missing, some bit of emptiness that can't be filled in, even if it hurts less after awhile! No– wait. What if it were me?"

"Pardon me?"

"What if it were me? What if someone snatched me and killed me and there was no evidence? What if I were just _gone_, Sherlock, and you had no idea where or who or how or why and that was it? What if you _knew_ you'd never see me again and all you had left was my body but you couldn't find it? What then?"

Sherlock almost stood up and John could see his muscles tensing at the last moment to keep himself sitting as his grey eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"Don't even consider that, John," he said in a low voice, bordering on a snarl.

"You should," John retorted. "Because it's the same situation. Or, wait, I'll do you one better. You knew Sam was alive. Why bother having to find out from Veronique where he was and that he was actually was alive? You already knew that."

"That is completely different."

"_Yes_," John stressed. "It _is_. Because you were finding out good news. And because it's _you_. It's different because it's you. If you need to think about it in terms of yourself, think about it that way. Think about it if were me. If that's what you need to make this work for you, then think about it that way. Be as selfish as you damn well want to be, but _take the case._"

Sherlock flared his nostrils – a sign he was truly annoyed, but John ignored it. He'd just visited the grave of a friend, one of too many lives cut short, but at least he _knew_ where Jamie was.

"There's no viable case," Sherlock said in a cool voice.

"There's always a case!" John shot back, smacking a palm against the table, visibly startling Sherlock – not much, but he knew the signs after seven years. "Listen to yourself! You're saying that because you don't think this is interesting, not because you don't think you can do it! You're Sherlock Holmes! This is what you _do._"

Sherlock started to speak, but John interrupted him again.

"You always take the cases that are interesting to you, Sherlock. You pick and choose who gets your help and who doesn't based on your moods or if something strikes your fancy in the details but never because someone may be important. Not really. They're all just part of the puzzle to you, aren't they? But a little girl is dead and you don't actually care–"

"I realize you just came from the cemetery, John, but putting your anger on me is uncalled for," Sherlock said, interjecting with a cold tone, the kind that told John he'd pushed Sherlock past just annoyed into actual anger, but he didn't care. "I understand that your friend is dead–"

"No you don't!" John shot back. "You don't. Because you do _not_ know what it's like, Sherlock! You don't have any idea what it's like to wake up and find someone just gone! Just like that," John snapped his fingers, "Just gone! But at least I know where Jamie is! His body, I mean. Murray has no idea but _you_ could give him that."

John stopped, sucking in a deep breath, and they stared at each other hard across the coffee table. John felt something inside of him snap and he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm going for a walk," he muttered.

Sherlock was up in a shot, blocking his access to the hotel door, holding an arm out across the archway, inserting his body into the space.

"No you are not," he contradicted.

"Sherlock–"

"No, John," Sherlock said, some of the sharpness easing from his voice. He curled his fingers around the corner of the wall but didn't move. "No. You are not walking out in the middle of a row because I know that will only make you angrier, and you'll be angry at yourself for doing so but angrier with me for letting you leave. No. You're staying here until we sort this and then you can walk as much as you want."

John stopped and stared, then dropped his head back so his face was turned to the ceiling for a moment.

Sherlock was right.

It was almost unbelievable, but they were having a row and Sherlock was making the right choice about resolving it.

"Bloody hell," John muttered under his breath.

"I _do_ understand that your friend is dead, John. I do _not_ understand how it affects you, although I can make some rather educated guesses based on your behaviour."

John raised his head again, crossing his arms. He felt in unfair to have Jamie's death flung back at him.

He stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared at him and the silence seemed to stretch out. John had no idea how to break it and was tempted to fill it with some inane thing, or an apology, but he didn't feel like apologizing either. He wanted do something – curse or yell or snipe or make some hurtful comment, but none of that was constructive and he felt tired suddenly, the fight draining out of him.

He'd cave and apologise, wouldn't he? Even though he was just trying to get Sherlock to take a case and solve a young girl's murder.

He always apologised. Sherlock almost never did. This struck John suddenly as extraordinarily unfair and stupid. He wanted to be right, for once. He wanted this just not to be his damn fault.

Sherlock sighed.

"All right," he said quietly. "I'll take the case, John. Because you're asking me to."

John uncrossed his arms quickly, shock coursing through him. For a moment he was certain he'd heard wrong – it wasn't an apology, but it was definitely a big concession.

"Not for the girl, not for Murray, for you," Sherlock clarified.

"Sherlock–"

"John," Sherlock said, holding up a hand. "Yes, you're right that I only take cases that seem interesting to me, that I deem important. I'm not apologizing for that. This is what I do. I don't think I can solve this case not because I lack confidence in my abilities – that would be unjustified and uncalled for – but because it's been nine years, I have never found anything, and the killer hasn't left anything for anyone to find . But this is important to you. And you are important to me."

John stared again, speechless rather than angry this time. He hadn't even considered this turn of events, that Sherlock might be the one to make a peace offering.

That never happened.

But maybe he was being unfair. No, he _was_ being unfair. Sherlock got it at least once in awhile. And he tried. John knew he tired. He just wasn't always very good at it.

"My one condition is that you are _never again_ allowed to ask me to consider how I would feel if you were murdered."

John opened his mouth and then shut it before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he said, opening his eyes again, meeting Sherlock's grey ones. "That was stupid. I won't."

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything. Well, he hadn't actually agreed that it was stupid – and it had been – so at least it was some sort of conciliatory gesture.

"We'll need to stay here, though," he said. "Kelsi Murray was kidnapped in Edinburgh – although whether or not she was killed and disposed of here remains unknown. John, this is going to be entirely up to him, do you understand? And the vote in London is next Tuesday. We have a week in which to respond to the impulses of and hints from a professional killer who is most likely acting on his employer's instructions. This is not going to be fun. And you have work."

"Call me out," John sighed. "They'll believe it's an emergency if you call."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Sherlock said, the slightest of smiles touching his lips. "As your emergencies tend to revolve around me."

John felt his own lips twitch.

"Well we were flying back tomorrow anyway and I took Tuesday and Wednesday off to have some time after we got home to relax. So really it's only Thursday and Friday. I can promise someone a month of Saturdays."

Displeasure flitted across Sherlock's face. John knew his husband didn't like it when he worked Saturdays.

"I'll make it up to you, too," he sighed.

"No," Sherlock contradicted, stepping forward, running a hand into John's hair. "I will live."

John gave a rueful smile and sigh.

"Come here," Sherlock said, snagging John's hands and tugging him toward the bed. John hesitated – he didn't really feel in the mood, even for make-up sex, because he was still tired and drained from the visit to the cemetery, the letter and then the row.

"I'm not sure–"

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Sherlock said and shock flashed through John again. It was _always_ what Sherlock was suggesting. "Shirt off. Hmm, jeans, too, it makes it easier. Just strip altogether. On your stomach. There's some hotel lotion in the bathroom – cheap, but it will serve."

The prospect of a massage warmed John's skin and he disrobed as ordered, lying down on his stomach, pillowing his chin on his arms. Sherlock came back with two of the complimentary bottles of lotion – which weren't as cheap as he thought, but Sherlock was not used to staying in really budget hotels, John suspected. And he'd booked them into one of this hotel's superior rooms.

Sherlock eased off his wedding ring and set it aside before settling down on the backs of John's legs and chafing lotion onto his hands. John closed his eyes, wondering what he was getting himself into with this case and if he'd been foolish to insist on it. But a case with Sherlock was never simple – it didn't matter why he took them or what they were. They were always mad. At least this one would be laying an old murder of a young girl to rest.

And he'd go where Sherlock wanted him no matter what, under any circumstances. Not just to protect the detective from himself, but for the thrill and for the opportunity of simply being with his husband. And because, despite all the jibes and rolled eyes and small knowing smiles, Sherlock always did appreciate his opinion. Even if he was completely wrong. John made a difference, he insisted.

Maybe they could both make a difference in the life of a man who had been missing his daughter for nearly a decade.

John managed to relax into the massage within a few seconds and was asleep before Sherlock had even properly warmed up his muscles.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of Sherlock's phone woke John and Sherlock watched his husband blink, raise his head blearily and prop himself on his forearms. John turned his head to look at Sherlock, who was sitting on the bed beside him, having diverted himself somewhat with reading while John had been asleep, sprawled on his stomach. He'd fallen asleep only seconds into the massage, but Sherlock had finished the job anyway, because he both wanted to and John would be able to feel and appreciate this now.

John's brown eyes darted to the phone and Sherlock shook his head; he didn't recognise the number. He answered it at the same time that John gave a nod – it was conceivable it was the killer, but unlikely. A man (or woman, yes, but probably man) who communicated by childish drawings in posted letters was not likely to suddenly switch to voice calls through which he could potentially be traced and identified.

"Yes, hello?" Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

It was a woman's voice with a distinct but urban Scottish accent and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John who did the same in return.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Inspector Anna Anderson with the Lothian and Borders Police."

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, memory clicking in. He had never met her, of course, but had reviewed her work on the Murray case at Mycroft's request and had found nothing in her case notes that augmented the information Mycroft had gathered.

"Yes, I thought you might know who I am," she replied and there was a wry, almost weary, hint in her voice. So calling him had not been her idea and she was unlikely to be pleased that the case had come up again. Mycroft disliked it, so it was reasonable to assume that the inspector who could not solve it was unhappy as well.

"And you clearly know who I am," he commented. John was watching the phone with a frown and Sherlock reached out with his free hand, smoothing a thumb over his husband's brow. John relaxed his expression, giving Sherlock a rueful look.

"I looked you up. Holmes isn't too uncommon a last name, but I thought that a man named Sherlock Holmes had to be related to a man named Mycroft Holmes. _That _can't be a coincidence."

John smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and shook his head once in silent response.

"And why were you looking me up at all, Inspector?" he asked.

"Because I got a letter on Friday with your phone number and instructions to call you on Sunday."

At this, Sherlock diverted all of his attention from John to the phone and John's brown eyes snapped back to it as well, as if they could see Anderson through the line.

"Well, I say 'instructions'," Anderson continued before Sherlock could enquire as to what the contents of the letter were. "It was your phone number, a drawing of the sun and the word 'day'. Pretty self explanatory, I should think."

"Done in purple pencil crayon?" Sherlock demanded.

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

"Now how did you know that?"

"I had a letter waiting for me at my hotel. I arrived on Friday afternoon, presumably after the post had been delivered. And Mycroft received a letter last week, the same type he's had the past nine years."

Anderson sighed.

"Yes, so did I," she said. "I wasn't expecting another one so soon but apparently he wants me to talk to you. Look, it would be easier to do this in person. Can you come down to St. Leonard's? I can give you the address."

"We'll come by cab, so no need," Sherlock said.

"'We'?"

"Yes, we."

Anderson hesitated, clearly awaiting an explanation but Sherlock offered her none. He heard a lighter sigh on the other end, one that signalled acquiescence.

"All right. Give me an hour and meet me there. If I'm not there, I'll have someone waiting for you."

"We will be there. Good-bye, Inspector," Sherlock said, and rung off. He gazed at his phone a moment, then cocked an eyebrow at John. "You may want to get dressed, unless you prefer being arrested for public indecency."

* * *

><p>She was indeed waiting for them when they arrived and Sherlock was pleased to find that she did not at all resemble the Anderson with whom he was more familiar. And, given the way her green eyes flashed over him and John quickly, immediately noting the matching wedding bands and evaluating them in terms of height, bearing, dress and stride, she was a far sight more intelligent than the so-called forensics officer.<p>

This Anderson was fairly average in height for a woman but slim, her stance hinting at strength, and her movements as she greeted them, stepping forward to shake his hand and then John's, indicated that she trained and kept herself both limber and in shape. A dedicated police officer, then. Her mass of red hair was swept back from her face rather hastily, but she was dressed sharply in a pale blue fitted blouse and dark grey trousers with a very sensible pair of black flats. Sherlock approved of the shoes – he despised seeing police officers in high heels on John's American crime shows and an enquiry to Tricia had confirmed that high heels were rubbish for running.

She also had two children, he judged. Girls most likely, approximately the same age or slightly older than Kelsi Murray had been when she'd disappeared. No wedding band and no marks of lighter skin on her left ring finger, so she'd either never been married or had been divorced for some time. Sherlock settled on divorced for some time – there was a subtle flash of something, not envy (perhaps muted regret?) when she'd noted the matching rings he and John wore. But it was old, not something sharp and fresh.

Her clothing was not cheap – not expensive as Sherlock would judge expensive, but well made and professional. The necklace around her throat was not. It was less sophisticated than her clothing would suggest, so it had been purchased for her by her children and she wore it because of that. Not something she would have chosen for herself, but she still liked it because it had sentimental value – of course – and the necklace had an uneven sheen that suggested it was worn often and not cleaned on a regular basis.

"Mister Holmes and Mister…"

"Doctor John Watson," Sherlock said.

"Doctor Watson, good to meet you. Inspector Anna Anderson. You can call me Anna. Please, come with me."

She led them away with an unquestioning confidence that she would be followed – the same confidence John sometimes displayed in that regard, when he was particularly in his army-captain mode. On the job she was in charge, at least over what she considered two civilians.

It was fascinating. Lestrade wasn't like this. He seemed always on the verge of losing his patience, or at least feeling the need to pretend so. Donovan was always slightly resentful of his presence – less so now than in years previous but she would never let it go because it was a territorial issue with her. She thought her performance was being questioned. Which, of course, it was. And Anderson– well, the least said about his lack of abilities, the better. He seemed to try and make up for this by being what John would call "an arrogant little sod", although he was not very good at this, either.

"In here," Anderson said, leading them into a small interview room, the door to which had been propped open to indicate that it was not being used for an actual interview. This was clearly not her workspace, but Sherlock suspected she did not have an office of her own, not being of high enough rank, and needed more space than the desk she had in a common area probably afforded.

On the table, there was an empty evidence box with the lid off and lying beside it, and files spread out in some order that was not immediately apparent, as well as a yellow backpack and a lightweight bright blue raincoat. Beside the box was a small pile of envelopes likely containing the letters Anna Anderson had received over the years.

"That's it," she sighed, putting her hands on her hips, shaking her head. "All of my case files, everything I've ever written down or typed up – all of the computer files printed out, the letters I got, and all we ever found of Kelsi."

"Her bag and her coat?" John asked as Sherlock stepped into the room and examined the evidence and files on the table without touching anything; he was not wearing gloves yet and had no desire to contaminate what little evidence had been gathered.

"Yes," Anderson sighed, making a vague gesture with her hand. "She was snatched on her way home from school – she lived only five blocks away. No CCTV cameras where she was, and no one noticed anything unusual, of course. Every lead we've tracked down has run us into a brick wall almost immediately."

"But he – whoever took her, I mean – he dumped her coat and backpack," John said. "That seems messy for all that planning."

"No," Sherlock said vaguely, then looked up when he felt John and Anderson's gaze on him, John giving him a puzzled look, Anderson an expectant one. "She disappeared in early September when it was still quite warm, but it had been raining in the morning. It had stopped by afternoon and had dried up, so she wasn't wearing her coat on her way home from school. Carrying it, no doubt, and since she lost her backpack, likely wearing it over one shoulder rather than both. So she dropped the coat and the bag in the struggle and they were unimportant to the killer because they couldn't be used to determine where she was. In fact, he likely left them so that she could be more quickly discovered missing, to ensure her father was distracted from his work. But had she been wearing both properly, he wouldn't have bothered with removing them and dumping them where she was kidnapped – it would have taken too much time."

"How do you know what the weather was like?" Anderson demanded.

"I've reviewed the case files, Inspector. More than once. She wouldn't have had her raincoat had it not been raining but she would have been wearing it if it had been raining when she was taken. She was a ten-year-old girl up against a professional killer – and I know you've come to the same conclusion. He wasn't seen because he didn't want to be seen."

Sherlock pulled out one of the basic wood-and-metal chairs and sat down, perching on the edge, glancing over the contents on the table.

"Gloves?" he asked.

Anderson nodded and vanished for a moment, returning with a box of nitrile gloves, which she passed to him. Sherlock snapped on a pair and reached for the stack of letters first. She'd organized them by when she'd received them and he opened the one she'd got on Friday, spreading the thin paper on the table, placing his next to hers.

"Why this, why now?" Anderson asked.

"Don't know," Sherlock said shortly. "Not yet. It may not matter. It's not the killer doing this, you know. Someone's hired him."

"Yes, I know, your brother shared his thoughts about that with me almost a decade ago now. But it's not as if we can simply consult a list of James Murray's enemies for suspects. He's a politician, we'd probably never exhaust the possibilities. But your brother seems to think it's someone quite well connected in the British government."

"My brother thinks rather a lot of things," Sherlock said with disdain. "Not all of them correct. But in this case, we're in agreement."

"Politics," Anderson muttered, shaking her head. "Give me a crime of passion any day, at least those we can solve. But bloody politics – well-connected people settling scores and doing so all in the shadows and backrooms. Acting like it's some kind of game."

Sherlock raised his head to see John with a frown on his face, but since Anderson was standing slightly in front of him, she didn't see it. She had her arms crossed and was giving Sherlock a hard look.

"Quite right," he said, cursing her insight. Of course, she was unintentionally drawing a parallel with Moriarty, whose presence always seemed to come back to life with cases like these, even though the man himself had been dead for four and a half years. Well-connected people playing games indeed. He wished he knew more about politics and its inner workings, and precisely how well-connected some of these men and women could be. How far did it spread? How extensive were their webs?

They had never even known that with Moriarty. Sherlock was not even certain when it came to Mycroft.

"Almost ten years and he hasn't change his tune until now. You said you had a letter waiting for you at your hotel. Here for a wedding, yes?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow – apparently she'd done more checking up on him than just searching for his name online and finding his website. Had she contacted Mycroft? Yes, she had. Well, of course she would, given that the pattern had changed suddenly. She'd want to know if it had done so for him, too.

Had it? Peripherally, he supposed.

"Yes," he confirmed. It was why he hadn't received the letter until today – the previous two days had been taken up with Sam and Sandra's wedding and John had checked them in, so Sherlock hadn't even spoken to the hotel staff until this morning.

Anderson circled the table, snagging a pair of gloves on the way and putting them on with practiced ease. "Let me see. He knew you were coming and look," she jabbed the sheet with a gloved finger, "You made it. He was expecting you."

Sherlock exchanged a surprised glance with John, then looked at her.

"How did you puzzle it out so fast?" he demanded.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

Sherlock cocked a dark brow at her; it had been obvious to him but had taken John several minutes to sort through.

"I've spent nearly ten years thinking about this case, Mister Holmes. Ten years looking at the code he repeats over and over and then I get a new one on Friday. Had me primed for trying to think like him. This is–"

She sighed, cutting herself off, picking up the letter Sherlock had received.

"He kidnaps and probably murders a little girl and then speaks to us in childish puzzles. I've spent nearly ten years looking for him and he doesn't care."

"It's very possible we won't find him now, Inspector," he warned. Whatever John thought about his abilities – which was warranted of course, and Sherlock was not doubting them, since he did not need to – this man was not James Moriarty. He was not playing a game to be found, to make the stakes personal. He was simply toying with them because he was paid to do so, to distract James Murray from his work.

Politics.

As Anderson had said, a crime of passion would be easier.

But boring.

He smiled slightly and saw John note it, but ignored this in favour of the police officer who had stopped in the doorway, a hard look on his face that had seen too much sun, too few good meals and the bottom of too many bottles. Not an alcoholic, no, but he drank more than he should and ate less than he ought to – although Sherlock would not point out this last to John, just in case.

"Sir?" Anderson asked.

"You two Holmes and Watson?" the officer asked, pointing first to Sherlock, then to John.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Well, I don't know who the bloody hell you know, but I just got orders from London to give you each a firearm, along with all the proper paperwork, signed, stamped, and delivered. Specific, too. Army sidearms. Who the hell _are_ you?"

Sherlock grinned.

At times being Mycroft's younger brother did have its benefits. It was rare, but it happened. Best to enjoy it when it did.

Anderson was staring at him in shock. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her and she seemed to remember herself, glancing at her commanding officer.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, Chief Inspector Jonathan Kipling. Sir, this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson."

Kipling favoured them with a glare that Sherlock associated with someone who had been given instructions he disliked by Mycroft.

"You're theirs for the duration, Anderson," Kipling said, giving Sherlock a curt nod.

"What?" Anderson said, starting visibly, straightening quickly from where she'd been bent to look at the letter Sherlock had received.

"Orders from on high. Don't ask."

Anderson kept staring, green eyes wide with disbelief, and even John looked shocked but Sherlock grinned. He waited - that wouldn't be all, not with Mycroft. Especially not because he'd wanted Sherlock to pick up this case again.

"Evidence is yours, too," Kipling said. "_But _if you lose or destroy _any_ of if, I will have your necks no matter who you know. I'll have their necks, too. I'm not having any of my people or this department dragged through the mud because of some bloody civilians."

Sherlock snorted. _Bloody civilians_ indeed.

"I don't know who you are, but you'd damn well better be good," Kipling snapped.

"Good doesn't even begin to cover it," Sherlock said, standing so that he could make use of his full height and noting the brief flash of surprise on the CI's face. He was used to the height difference with John – so much so that he barely noticed it anymore unless it was inconvenient – but he fairly towered over Anderson and stood a good two inches taller than Kipling.

John gave him a mild warning look that had absolutely no bite to it and Sherlock ignored it altogether.

"Come on, John," he said, starting to pack the evidence back into the box. "Back to the hotel. Inspector, our weapons if you'd be so good?"

"Tomorrow morning, nine am sharp," Kipling shot back. "Bring your identification, gentlemen, because I am _not_ signing out guns to men I don't know without a lot of paperwork. Come ready for that, too."

Sherlock only twitched his eyebrows up once and got a dark glare in response.

"Anderson, with me a minute," Kipling snapped and the Inspector followed the Chief out of the room.

Sherlock grinned at John. John only rolled his eyes and crossed his arms loosely; he was along for the ride now, whether he liked it or not.


	7. Chapter 7

"Brilliant, you're awake," John heard. The fact that Sherlock had woken him up was being completely ignored. It was difficult to sleep when someone was leaning over him repeating "John, wake up" in his ear.

"God, what time is it?" John groaned, rolling onto his back. Sherlock immediately propped one arm on John's chest, resting some of his weight there and John rubbed his eyes.

Personal space? What personal space?

He became aware that something was being held up to his face for inspection.

"Seven ten."

"What?"

"It's ten minutes past seven in the morning, John. You did ask."

John managed to pluck the paper from Sherlock's right hand, not at all expecting the weight on his chest to be removed. He was right – it wasn't. And Sherlock snuggled against him, now also propping his chin on John's bare chest and watching him. It looked like an extremely uncomfortable position and it was starting to get there for John, but he ignored this because he knew any protests he gave would go unheard.

"What is this?" he groaned.

"Another letter," Sherlock replied with a grin that was far, far too bright for both the hour and the circumstances.

"The post came this early?" John asked.

"Courier," Sherlock replied. His expression was positively gleeful and John wasn't certain if this was a bad thing or not. He kept a sigh to himself, knowing arguing was useless anyway. It certainly wasn't going to change Sherlock's attitude and given that John had demanded Sherlock take this case, he really should be grateful at the enthusiasm.

It was misplaced enthusiasm – or it would be, for someone who wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

John ran his free hand into the dark curls. He didn't want Sherlock to change anyway, not really. This was what made him _him._

_And the fairly consistent one track mind_, John thought as Sherlock placed light kisses on John's chest while the doctor read the letter.

"Do you want me to try and puzzle this out?" John asked. "Or do you want my brain to short circuit?"

"It's so _easy_," Sherlock replied, voice slightly muffled by the fact that he had not raised his head from John's chest. He followed his words with another light kiss.

John sighed.

"Yes, for you. And I just woke up. And you're a bit distracting."

Sherlock shrugged – which John felt certain he shouldn't be able to do, propped on his arms as he was – and nuzzled John's skin lightly.

"You're on a case, Sherlock," John reminded him. "You don't shag while you're working."

Admittedly that rule had been broken before, but not often – usually only if Sherlock was stuck up against something particularly difficult and needed to stop and refocus himself. John felt a little bit proud that he sometimes replaced the violin playing.

"We haven't got our guns," Sherlock replied. "So we're not properly on the case yet."

John rolled his eyes. That was certainly a very liberal loophole, especially since they had the evidence in their hotel room, spread out on the coffee table, and John was holding another of the morbid letters in one hand. Sherlock was very creative when it came to his mental blind spot for John and often surprised the doctor with how he could bend and shape it to suit his needs.

"You taste different here," Sherlock commented, resuming the light kissing.

"Sorry, what? How can I possibly taste different?"

He felt his husband's tongue run gently across his chest and tried to repress a shudder but the faint chuckle told him he'd failed.

"Different water, different soap," Sherlock murmured, alternating between kisses and licks.

"Really, Sherlock, do you want me to read this or not?"

"Oh, fine," Sherlock huffed and stopped but did not, John noticed, move his lips from John's skin.

John was able to refocus on the letter, such as it was. Same purple pencil crayon as the last one and he wondered if the colours meant anything, but probably not. Sherlock would have picked up on that and commented on it by now if they did. Maybe whoever was writing this just happened to like purple right now.

He sighed at the message.

A childish drawing of two houses, a light bulb, the sun, the "&" symbol, the word "the" and the sun again.

"Bit wordy for him, isn't it?"

"Not really," Sherlock replied with a muffled voice. John combed his fingers through his husband's dark curls and reread the message – or at least looked at it again. He tried to puzzle it out, but his brain was still waking up and partly focused on the feel of Sherlock's lips on his skin and – hmm – the hand that had moved and was now oh-so-_not-really_-absently caressing his leg.

He was pretty sure Sherlock wanted to explain this one to him. The detective probably thought this one was exceptionally clever and wanted to display his massive intellect – although John wondered how quickly Inspector Anderson would have pieced this together. She'd deciphered the first letter Sherlock had received in very short order.

He tried to concentrate but it was getting harder with Sherlock's fingertips skimming up the inside of his thigh then down the back to his knee.

"Do you want to me to read the letter or do you want to shag?" John growled, his voice deeper than he'd intended it to be.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes. He'd walked right into that one.

"Houses, light bulb, sun, and the sun."

Sherlock raised his eyes now, giving John an amused look.

"Very literal interpretation, my dear Watson."

"Would you stop with the 'my dear Watson'?" John huffed.

"No."

Sherlock gave him a grin and John rolled his eyes again. Those long fingers were continuing their maddening path up and down, just short of moving too far north so that he was routinely distracted by silently urging them to move further.

"Not 'houses'," Sherlock said.

"Yes, they're houses," John contradicted. "Two squares, each topped with a triangle and square windows and a door and even a chimney with a little swirly squiggly line for smoke. What kid doesn't draw houses like that?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said.

"That's because you grew up in a huge bloody mansion. And you were probably drawing grisly crime scenes when you were three."

"Six," Sherlock corrected with a grin and John smacked him lightly on the head with the letter.

"And what's this light bulb?"

"No, John, what does a light bulb use?"

"Electricity," John said.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Power?"

"Oh, come on. I'm staring it right in the face." Sherlock grinned at his last words, eyes fixed on John.

"What, me? I do _not_ power light bulbs."

Sherlock raised his other eyebrow, looking at him expectantly.

"Come _on_, John! I said it just a moment ago!"

"What –" John started then sighed, watching Sherlock watch him. He thought a moment, then felt his eyes widen in realization and looked back at the paper, trying to ignore Sherlock's chuckle that he felt reverberating through his body and settling inconveniently in his groin.

It really wasn't helping now that both of them had slept naked.

"Watt sun?" he asked. "Watson?"

Sherlock gave him a triumphant smile. John groaned, covering his eyes with the letter for a moment.

"Holmes and Watson?" he asked. "Oh yes, very funny. He's a regular comedian, isn't he? Ha bloody ha. What's the last one, then? And the sun? I don't understand that one."

"The masculine German article for 'the' is 'der', John."

John paused a moment.

"Anderson?" he sighed.

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh, well, bloody congratulations to him for knowing our names. Of course he knows our names. Does he think we don't? Why would he even bother sending this? Of course he knows we're on the case – he sent you and Inspector Anderson each a letter."

"It's quite obvious that he knows who we are and I'm certain he's not suggesting we don't know our own names. The fact that he drew attention to the three of us implies that he wants us to pay attention to names. Since this case is not about us but about James Murray and his missing daughter, it's reasonable to conclude the name on which he wants us to focus is 'Murray'."

"Well, that should be a no brainer," John said. "But why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it has significance to a location here in the city."

"Murray?" John asked. "That's a common last name. There's probably hundreds of places and businesses with that in their name."

"Oh, undoubtedly. This is clearly not enough information from which to draw any further conclusions. I did tell you this would be entirely at his whim – rather the whims of the person who is employing him."

John sighed. He knew that, but it didn't mean he liked it.

"Well, fine," he said. "At least we can go down to St. Leonard's and get our guns and show this to Anderson."

Sherlock gave him another smile, this one significantly more predatory. John noted with sudden clarity that Sherlock's hand was moving a lot farther up his leg, but very slowly.

"It's only twenty past seven, John. And if we're late, they'll wait."

"Kipling said nine sharp," John protested.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, kissing John's chest again. "This is not the army. And if they protest, I'll simply have Mycroft get back in touch with them again."

"Are you actually saying this isn't as interesting to you?" John said, waving the letter vaguely.

"I deciphered it in less than half a minute and you've worked it out as well. Until we can confer with Anderson and until we receive a new letter, nothing else can be done that has not already been attempted – by Mycroft, Anderson and myself – over the past nine years. This will be _much _more pleasurable, believe me."

John thought a little longingly of breakfast but decided – quite abruptly – that this could also wait.

* * *

><p>Sherlock left explicit instructions with the front desk clerk that he was to be called immediately should another letter arrive for him by either courier or in the post. He impressed this upon her quite clearly and was moderately annoyed when John dragged him away, saying that she understood him just fine. He had his suspicions that the young woman at the desk was far more invested in one of the concierges and was likely to be distracted by this. She was very obviously paying more attention than the young man than she was to Sherlock, even when the detective was speaking to her. That kind of inattention was uncalled for and made him despair. Or it would have, if it had not been for John, who always made him feel better about the entirety of the human race. Surely if humanity could produce someone as fascinating as John Watson, then there was some hope.<p>

They arrived at St. Leonard's closer to nine-thirty and found Anderson waiting for them, arms crossed, cocking a gold-red eyebrow impatiently.

"Kipling's about to climb the walls," she said, which Sherlock found unlikely. The man did not strike Sherlock as a climber. Nor were the walls here actually conducive to climbing. He ascribed this to some ridiculous maxim.

"Unavoidably delayed," he said and had the distinct expression that John was repressing a snort. Sherlock ignored the temptation to give him a pointed look, because he did not want Anderson interpreting it. But John had enjoyed himself. Sherlock had made sure of this.

He handed her the letter and she took it with a frown.

"Came this morning, via courier," Sherlock said as they strode into the station. The inspector was barely watching where she was going, which meant she was used to the route and accustomed to having something to read or examine while walking.

She too understood the Holmes and Watson but Sherlock had to explain "Anderson" to her and she raised her eyebrows with a sigh.

"Ten years of saying the same thing and you show up and he's all talkative," she commented, a trace of frustration in her voice, on her features.

"Not so," Sherlock replied. "I've looked into this case before."

"But you've never received any letters," she pointed out. "And as soon as you do, they deviate from the pattern. I don't like it."

"Would you prefer that they didn't? Because that would give us no new information."

She sighed and gave him a look then slid her green eyes to John as though to ask if Sherlock was always like this. Sherlock ignored that exchange; his behaviour was irrelevant to the case.

"Well, come upstairs," she said. "Kipling's going to double the paperwork because you're late, you can be sure about that. He's not happy with your brother right now, Mister Holmes."

"I am rarely happy with Mycroft, so this is not surprising," Sherlock replied and her lips twitched. Some sibling rivalry in her own life? Or an understanding of it from her daughters? He suspected the former, since she would probably be displeased with rivalry between her daughters, the way Sibyl Holmes was with the rivalry between her sons. But then, Anderson's own sibling rivalry was unlikely to be similar to what Sherlock had with Mycroft.

There was no sibling quite like Mycroft.

She passed the letter back.

"You shouldn't have been handling that without gloves," she said.

"There's nothing on it," Sherlock assured her.

"I know," she replied, casting him a quick glance over her shoulder as she hit the button for the lift. "But still."

Sherlock just shrugged, unconcerned, and tucked the letter back into his pocket. Anderson took them to Kipling's office, and Sherlock was pleased to see two new handguns waiting for them.

"You're late," Kipling said by way of greeting and Sherlock sniffed – didn't the man have any manners? Sherlock and John were not being paid, they were doing this as a favour, and timetables were for other people to keep.

"Traffic," he lied, just to keep his hand in. Kipling snorted and seemed to buy it and thankfully John did not give up their game.

Neither Kipling nor Anderson had been lying about the paperwork, although Sherlock strongly suspected a good deal of the forms had been entirely made up. He had his passport examined and so did John – and to think John had claimed they didn't need their passports for a weekend trip to Scotland – as well as every other piece of identification they had on them. Kipling even glared at their notes as if looking for counterfeit.

Sherlock signed everything that was put in front of him, after reading it thoroughly, of course. One never knew, with Mycroft. Anderson stood leaning against a filing cabinet, arms folded, a wry but amused expression on her face. Sherlock found himself liking her; she was such a refreshing change from the Anderson he knew.

Finally, they seemed to have satisfied the Chief Inspector – or, more likely, to have run out of things he had put together for them to sign – and their passports apparently met with his approval, because he passed off each weapon with a long winded but strict speech about proper protocol and use and care.

As if Sherlock didn't know.

And John had been in the army.

John was turning his over, examining it carefully. It was unloaded, of course, which was good, and they were given a small supply of ammunition that Sherlock had every intention of augmenting as soon as he was free of either officer. He knew some people in Edinburgh who could assist with that.

"These aren't what I'm used to," John said. "Standard for your force?"

"Not exactly these," Kipling replied. "Specifications from your brother, Mister Holmes."

"Not military?" Sherlock asked John.

"Not our military, at least not these ones." John replied. "But they're still SIGs. They're used by some allied forces."

"You do know how to use it, don't you?" Sherlock enquired.

John looked up and rolled his brown eyes very pointedly.

"Yes, Sherlock, I know how to use it. It's still a gun."

Sherlock ignored the sarcasm in favour of answering his phone, which was buzzing gently in his suit jacket pocket. He grinned when he saw the hotel's number displayed on the tiny screen. Apparently the twenty he'd slipped the concierge on the way out had paid off.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. He saw all eyes in the room focus on him and grinned when the front desk clerk told him he had a letter waiting that had come in the post not five minutes ago. He thanked her and rung off, pushing himself to his feet.

"Come on, John, Inspector. The game is on."


	8. Chapter 8

They returned to the Rutland Hotel in a squad car that Anderson had apparently been assigned for the duration of her work with them. Sherlock was displeased by this – he did not like riding in the back of a police car regardless of the fact that the woman driving it was taking him away from a police station. It reminded him too much of the times he'd been arrested, which, through careful effort, he'd managed to ensure John never learned about. They had been before he'd known John anyway, and had primarily been Lestrade's means to try and shake him back to reality and get him off the cocaine.

The fact that he'd never considered himself an addict had always fallen on deaf ears with the DI and Sherlock Did Not Talk About That now, not to John. Even Mycroft had managed to take the hint shortly after Sherlock had met John and had ceased all questions about Sherlock's continued sobriety.

Anderson didn't seem to mind that both of them had sat in the back and had not even raised her eyebrows at the way they tangled their hands together almost immediately. Sherlock was past used to getting pointed looks from cabbies – surprise or revulsion or interest. He had the distinct impression that Anderson had noticed but really didn't care.

Sherlock snuck a glance a John out of the corner of his eye and was pleased. He had an extensive and detailed catalogue of John's expressions and this was one of his favourites: Happy and Satisfied John. At least it was one of his favourites that other people got to see. _No one_ else got to see his absolute favourites. In fact, he had bitten his lip so hard to try and keep himself quiet while making one of those faces earlier that morning that his lip had nearly bled. Sherlock was glad it hadn't. That sort of thing tended to cause tedious and unnecessary comments and stares, and he was fairly sure that no one else had noticed the not-yet-fading red mark on John's mouth.

His expression now was a definite improvement over Sad and Angry-at-the-World John that Sherlock had seen after John's visit to his friend's grave at the cemetery. Sherlock's dislike of that expression had been compounded by the fact that it was difficult to know how to treat John when he felt that way, especially given the situation. Sherlock had no friends who had died and death was just death. It just happened. He knew this was a bit not good to say, however.

Anderson did raise her eyebrows at them when she pulled up in front of the hotel in the emergency zone. Sherlock smiled at this perk and got out of the car, John following behind him, his hand on Sherlock's waist for a moment, not out of necessity but out of a simple desire to touch.

"Bit on the posh side, isn't it?" Anderson commented. Sherlock snorted; no it wasn't. It was what he considered standard but John nodded, because John thought everything was "posh". Even though they had stayed at a far pricier and more luxurious hotel on their honeymoon.

The concierge held the door for them and produced a white envelope from his smart uniform jacket.

"Letter for you, sir," he said. Sherlock accepted it with a grin, subtly exchanging it for another twenty. This young man was far more reliable in the presence of money than the young woman working the front desk was and he intended to cultivate that. He would very likely need a consistent contact at the hotel.

He led John and Anderson into the lobby and found them a set of unoccupied chairs and a small couch. Apparently, this size – that fit two people – was sometimes called a loveseat, and Sherlock thought it was appropriate when he had John sit with him and tangled their legs together.

"Hey, here," Anderson said, fishing a pair of latex gloves from her light jacket and passing them to him. Sherlock snorted but put them on and opened the envelope. He flipped open the letter and then frowned, brows drawing together.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip without answering, then shook his head slowly. John leaned over, dislodging Sherlock's legs a bit. Sherlock shifted the paper so that John could see but doubted the doctor would puzzle this out if he himself could not.

It was that same purple pencil crayon the unknown correspondent seemed to be favouring at the moment – Sherlock had found no indications that the colours were important here, however – and showed a series of stick-figure images. The first was of a man with his limbs bent. The second was two lines, one crooked, all sharp angles, delineated on either end by a short vertical line. Directly underneath that was a second line, this one straight with the same vertical line terminations. A quick analysis revealed the lines were the same length although the straight one appeared longer. That was a simple optical illusion. The third image was what Sherlock suspected was a cat, with its limbs bent as well.

He looked up at John who was frowning and looking equally – or more – puzzled.

Anderson put a sterile glove on her right hand and gestured for the letter. Sherlock held onto it a moment longer, trying to puzzle it out, but it made no sense. He was missing something important, he knew he was, and the sensation was extraordinarily frustrating.

With a sigh, he passed the paper over and the inspector took it. Her features settled into a frown as well and Sherlock was glad he was not alone. This was maddening. Did the killer – or his employer – mean for them to stop as soon as they started? He repressed another sigh. That very well may be the case. He was certain they did not really want this solved and were only toying with them, and what better way to do so than to present a series of clues that he could decipher then abruptly switch to random images that may have no meaning? It could keep them chasing their tails for days while the vote in the House in London loomed closer.

Of course, if their aim was to distract Murray from his work, they couldn't accomplish this by having Sherlock and John run about Edinburgh uselessly. Sherlock refrained from saying this out loud, but he suddenly suspected they did want the body to be found, but only when the timing was appropriate. Now was too early. They still had a week until the vote and Murray could conceivably pull himself together enough with seven days to do his job.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, wondering if perhaps he should pay more attention to politics. But it was Mycroft's area and his brother had all the information Sherlock could want. The problem there was it necessitated talking to Mycroft. Sherlock knew enough from the case files he had read previously to deduce that Murray was a man of firm, almost stubborn, convictions and would do his job in the face of extreme adversity. He already had. But would he be able to do so if his daughter's body was discovered immediately before the vote? Was his vote as an Independent MP important? Would removing him have some sort of effect one way or the other?

Sherlock suddenly wanted to stop, to tell John this was a bad idea and to explain why, but Anderson's features shifted from confusion to a sudden suspicion of understanding and she glanced up.

"Wait here," she said and rose, crossing the lobby to the desk, where she flashed her police badge and had the immediate attention of the young woman with whom Sherlock had struggled for focus earlier that morning. He narrowed his eyes; he should have nicked Lestrade's badge before the older man had left the previous day. Of course, it was likely that Lestrade hadn't brought it with him so it may have been a useless venture.

Anderson came back with a tourist map of the city and spread it out on the low coffee table between them. Sherlock untangled his legs from John's and sat up, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. Anderson flipped the map over to look at the detail of the Royal Mile tourist area, putting the letter down beside it, a frown of concentration on her features.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded, displeased that someone else was making a connection that he wasn't.

"There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile," she murmured, more to herself than to them.

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply and noted John's frown, which was surprised more than puzzled.

"It's a poem, a nursery rhyme," she said. "Look. The whole thing is: There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile/ He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile/ He brought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse/ And they all lived together in a little crooked house."

Sherlock stared at her blankly and John's frown deepened.

"We have the crooked man and the crooked cat," Anderson said, tapping the letter. "And the crooked mile, look. And this one here, the straight one, it's been drawn to scale with the standard tourist maps of Edinburgh."

She gave a dry laugh, more of a huff.

"And right outside, we have a relatively straight mile going between two houses," she mused.

"What?" Sherlock demanded again. "How did you know that?"

"I have children, Mister Holmes. I'm well versed in nursery rhymes. It's been awhile, but these things never leave you."

Sherlock glowered at that; clearly she did not find it necessary to delete extraneous information from her brain.

But it had turned out not to be extraneous.

"Two houses at the end of the Mile," Anderson said, circling each with a pen she'd taken from her coat pocket. "The Castle and Holyrood Palace. But also... Parliament is right next to the Palace and if you want to talk about crooked houses…"

She spun the map round for Sherlock to look at and he bent over it, chewing his lower lip, tracing the Mile with the tip of a gloved finger, looking for anything that stood out, anything with the name "Murray" in it, but there seemed to be nothing. That didn't indicate anything; there could be any number of shops with that in their names that weren't major landmarks.

"The 'crooked man' could be Murray, a politician," John pointed out.

"No, nothing in our investigations has ever indicated he's in any way corrupt," Sherlock murmured. "At least, no more so than anyone else."

"Could be the man behind this?" John suggested.

Sherlock tapped his finger against the tiny icon for the Scottish Parliament, thinking of his brother and Angela MacTaggart and everyone he'd ever met who moved in those circles.

"Or anyone," he sighed, sitting back. "They're politicians. Trying to identify a single 'crooked' one amidst all of them is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack, John."

He saw John raise his eyebrows in surprise and Sherlock was secretly pleased with himself for knowing and using an axiom correctly. He'd heard this one before, of course, since it seemed to be quite common, but had ignored it until relatively recently. Sam had said it to him once in regards to some case or other and Sherlock had then looked it up on the basis that Sam was his friend and must therefore occasionally say things that were important.

Sherlock suspected the needle in the saying was a sewing needle and not a hypodermic needle, since agricultural metaphors probably did not mix well with modern medical equipment. And it was likely easier to find a syringe in a haystack than an actual sewing needle, although he had not worked out how a sewing needle would end up in a haystack or why anyone would bother searching for it if it did. These things were often baffling but seemed to serve a linguistic purpose.

"Or hay in a haystack," Anderson sighed. "We could take our pick."

Sherlock peeled off his gloves and pulled out his phone.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"The origins of the poem," Sherlock replied, calling up his browser and ignoring the questioning looks from John and Anderson. He did some quick research, pleased that his instincts were correct.

"It's not Parliament to which he's directing us," he said. "The poem has its origins during the reign of Charles I when an agreement was negotiated between England and Scotland. Charles I was therefore King of England and King of Scotland, as well as King of Ireland, although this last is unimportant. Inspector, what would you say is the general sentiment toward London in this country?"

Anderson snorted and Sherlock cocked a dark brow in reply.

"Yes, I suspected as much."

"Look, it's not that bad," Anderson interjected. "I see a lot of anger on this job, mostly in the form of graffiti, but there's a lot of people who don't care or who are perfectly happy."

"Yes, but there's also a long and contentious history," Sherlock replied. He caught John's surprised expression and wrinkled his nose in displeasure. "Oh come on, John, I do live in England. I'm not entirely ignorant of the history. As with all things political, it's reasonable to conclude this agreement would have caused some consternation."

He pushed himself to his feet, his mind buzzing, feeling on the verge of something. He didn't have his violin and nor could he shag John right there in the hotel lobby – well, at least John would voice objections to this – and he needed to _think._ He tapped the pads of his left fingers against his left thumb, using it as a poor substitute for his instrument.

"What are you thinking?" Anderson asked.

"I don't know, I think a lot, it's hard to keep track," Sherlock replied. John's sudden laughter made Sherlock look up with a smile.

"Eleventh Doctor, series five," his husband said. "Episode– two?"

"You remember!" Sherlock exclaimed in surprise, swooping down to kiss him, startling Anderson with his sudden movement.

"'Course I remember," John said. "It's important to you. And that line reminded me of you, too."

Sherlock grinned and dropped himself back down beside John.

"Look, Inspector. We have two houses, or palaces, from which to choose. Charles I would have occupied Holyrood Palace when he was here because, although the Edinburgh Castle was in use during his lifetime, it was not so during or after his reign."

He held up his phone with the information and she glanced at it, narrowing her eyes somewhat to adjust for the small size of the screen.

"All right, Holyrood it is. But needle in a haystack, like you said. I doubt we'll find anything."

* * *

><p><em>Needle in a haystack indeed<em>, Sherlock thought with a repressed growl, eyes skimming over the crowd of tourists, making quick and accurate deductions about them and then dismissing those instantly as unimportant.

There were too many people – both visitors and staff – too many rooms, too many places where they were not allowed to venture, even with Anderson's police badge. Sherlock considered getting Mycroft to wrangle them permission but even then there would be areas off-limits. The royal family was not in residence at the moment but he strongly suspected that even his brother could not get them access to the royal apartments.

Which meant that the killer and his employer likely couldn't either and they wouldn't leave information in an area that was inaccessible. Not if they wanted Sherlock to obtain said information.

He ignored Anderson with ease and John with a bit more effort, turning slowly on the spot, drinking in every detail, the scuff marks on the floor, the arch of the windows, the knots of tourists and areas of empty space, the smells – which were far too many and complex to tease out anything of value – the murmurs of conversations – mostly in English with a few other languages thrown in here and there for variety – the play of light on the walls, the art work, the floors, the benches, all of it.

All of it useless.

_What am I missing?_ he asked himself, narrowing his eyes slightly. _What is crooked? What stands out?_

There were so many people here that he could take his pick of guilty secrets and he did see a thief or two – pickpockets preying on tourists. But they were too common for what he was looking for and he ignored them.

A movement caught his attention and he shifted, turning his head slightly, watching, and someone was moving through the crowds toward them, smiling and waving. Sherlock waited, then Anderson noted the man in a smart security uniform approaching them and smiled back, raising a hand in greeting.

_Older man, in his early fifties, retired police officer, keeps up with his exercise, didn't want to stop working but wanted to stop being on the job, not shot but almost? Perhaps or needed more regular hours, married, wants to spend more time with his wife_. All of this flashed through Sherlock's mind the moment before the man joined him.

"'Morning, Anna."

"Rob, hi," Anderson replied. "This is Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson from London. Working a case."

Sherlock noted that she'd given him a title to imply that he was with the Met, smoothing over any explanations that would otherwise be necessary. The man raised his eyebrows at them but asked no questions – good.

"Detective, Doctor, this is Robert Campbell. He was my first partner on the force. Years ago now," she added with a grin.

Sherlock nodded and John shook the other man's hand, exchanging a friendly hello.

"What case?" Campbell asked.

Anderson sighed.

"The Murray case. Again."

At this, an eyebrow was raised but Anderson ignored it.

"New leads?"

"Maybe. Hard to say," she said, shaking her head as if to negate her words.

"Well, best of luck on it. After nearly ten years…" He shook his head and Anderson nodded. "By the way, I've been meaning to call you. Got the package you sent last week but I've been wondering about it. Been busy around here, though, with tourist season starting to pick up. Getting in touch with you slipped my mind, sorry."

Anderson frowned and Sherlock refocused on her quickly.

"Package? What package?"

"C'mon, Anna, the book you sent me. Or was it for the new grandbaby?"

Anderson gave her former partner a careful look.

"Rob, I didn't send you anything."

He twitched his eyebrows up in disbelief.

"The book of fairytales?"

Sherlock gasped quietly, noting that John stiffened, and Campbell snapped his brown eyes to the detective, narrowing them somewhat.

"What?" Anderson demanded. "No, I did not send you that. When did you get it?"

"Friday," Campbell said. "Came in the post, but here, which I thought was unusual for you. Why not send it to me at home?"

"Because I didn't send it," Anderson said quickly. "Rob, do you still have it? Is it still here?"

"Yeah, of course. It's in my office. Come with me, I'll get it for you."


	9. Chapter 9

John knew this was grim, he really did, but it was endless fun to watch Sherlock poring over a book of fairy tales and madly taking notes as he read. He was alternating between writing in the margins of the book itself – the standard Grimm's Fairy Tales – and jotting things down on a notepad. He was giving it his full attention in the way only Sherlock could; bent over the pages, dark curls falling about his face, lower lip occasionally caught between his teeth. Every so often, he'd grunt or mutter something to himself.

"John, this is appalling," he said and John looked over from his place on the bed. He had the telly on and was watching football with the sound muted so as not to distract his husband.

"What is?" John asked. There was so much to choose from.

Sherlock gestured to the open book.

"These stories – they seem entirely inappropriate for the ages of their target audiences. It's all a bit macabre. Women cutting off their toes, children pushing people into ovens. Do people honestly read this to their children?"

John smiled.

"Didn't your mum read you fairy tales when you were little?" he asked.

"I should hope not," Sherlock sniffed. "I suspect her taste in literature was far superior. These people are all quite dense, too. What kind of young woman goes searching for a spinning wheel after receiving a prophecy that one will kill her? It's sheer idiocy."

John laughed.

"They aren't supposed to be realistic stories, Sherlock. Morality tales, I think."

"Oh yes, if the moral is that witches are evil then the authors have made their point quite clearly. Honestly, I'm surprised no one is burnt at the stake."

John rolled his eyes but chuckled.

"Did your mum really not read this kind of stuff to you? I thought that's what mums did."

"I don't recall her doing so," Sherlock said with a faint narrowing of his eyes and John grinned. It was very possible the Sibyl had done so and Sherlock had later deleted the memories as useless information.

_Five quid he loved these when he was little_, John thought, and resolved to ask Sibyl next time he spoke to her.

"Did you find anything useful?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted.

"Spoilt for choice," he replied, shaking his head. "All of these seem to revolve around children going missing or young women being in danger. And talking animals, which is quite inexplicable."

"It's _fantasy_, Sherlock."

"Certainly not _my _fantasy," Sherlock replied. John flashed another grin.

"I don't even want to know," he said.

"Oh, I suspect you already do."

"Right, I'm ordering room service," John said, derailing that conversation. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said vaguely, turning back to the book and jotting something else in the margins.

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"Working," Sherlock said in the same absent voice and John wondered how hard he could push. Sherlock had actually kept on the weight he'd gained when he and John had first got together, but John knew how quickly he could lose it. By John's estimation he had gained a whole five pounds, pushing him to _just_ this side of underweight. He frankly had no wiggle room and the doctor in John definitely wanted to keep him where he was.

"You act as though I starve myself," Sherlock said without looking up, accurately judging the quality of John's silence. John rolled his eyes and suspected Sherlock had caught that, too.

"Lasagne?" John tried, knowing this was a favourite, but usually only at Angelo's.

Sherlock only grunted.

"Fish and chips, then," John said. This was always a last resort and they both knew it, because in terms of nutritional value, it was rubbish. But it had fat, salt, and calories, and John took what victories he could.

"Fine," Sherlock consented. "If they have it."

They didn't, but they weren't in the heart of the tourist area for nothing. John ended up going out and getting them each an order from a stand not too far up the Mile, setting Sherlock's down pointedly right in front of him. The detective looked up with an expression that was a mixture between indulgence, appreciation, and impatience, and John grinned, leaning down for a quick kiss. Then he settled himself on the bed again, tucking into his own greasy meal, and watched the rest of the football match while Sherlock worked.

* * *

><p>"Argh, go back to work," John said sometime shortly after two in the morning, his voice muffled by his pillow and laced with impatience and lack of sleep. Sherlock refocused and frowned slightly, darting his eyes to the side. He was lying on his back, palms together, the tips of his middle fingers touching his chin as he thought.<p>

John was the one who had dragged him to bed an hour previous. Sherlock had grumbled but had eventually given in and had been lying silently since, trying to piece together the next possible clue based on the book of horrible stories they'd been given.

"I'm not speaking or moving, John," he said quietly. "I can't see how I'm keeping you awake."

"You're the loudest bloody thinker in the universe," John groaned.

"Utterly untrue."

"Well you're managing to keep me up somehow. Just bloody well get up."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in the darkness. Being kicked out of bed, was he?

"No."

John rolled onto his back, peering at him blearily through the darkness.

"What?"

"I've exhausted every avenue of research I can imagine or pursue at the moment based on those ridiculous tales and now I need to think. I don't have my violin and you're tired and not in the mood for shagging, so my best option is to think in silence. I fail to see how this is keeping you awake."

"How do you know I'm not interested in shagging?"

"The fact that you're sleeping on your side turned away from me – or at least attempting to sleep and not giving up on such attempts and suggesting anything else. It's quite elementary, really."

"Oh well I'm glad it's so obvious. Can't you lie on the couch and think?"

"No."

John sighed. Sherlock shifted onto his side and wrapped himself expertly around John who stiffened in surprise a moment, then relaxed.

"What're you doing?"

"Allowing you to sleep and me to think," Sherlock replied. John lay still another minute then rolled onto his side as well, curling into the embrace. Sherlock pressed his lips against John's forehead and rubbed slow circles on his back. The repetitive motion both soothed John and allowed Sherlock to focus. Bit by bit, John's body relaxed in Sherlock's arms as his breathing slowed.

When he awoke in the morning, he gave Sherlock a look that indicated he didn't think the detective had slept, which was entirely untrue. Sherlock had got a solid three hours. It was scarcely his fault he'd inherited a reduced need for sleep from his mother.

It was enough to leave him feeling alert, so the hours that dragged by before the next letter came in chafed and he spent several long minutes agonising as to whether or not their mystery contact had simply stopped. Perhaps they'd played enough of a game and were being dropped? Anderson had pointed out that this was more communication than she'd previously received and Sherlock now wondered how far this man and his employer would deviate from their pattern.

He paced the hotel room, tried not to snipe at John who seemed to get in his way without moving, bit his lip, ran his hands through his hair, checked his email on his phone, nicked John's phone to check his email again, flipped through the book of children's stories, paced some more, checked for voicemails, muttered to himself and kept pacing until John finally snapped:

"Enough!"

Sherlock looked up sharply to see John glaring at him. With a huff, the detective threw himself onto the couch, crossing his arms and slouching into a sulk.

"Right. Why don't we go downstairs for lunch? You're not accomplishing anything up here."

Sherlock sat up quickly and flared his nostrils at the idea that he was useless and John held up both of his hands placatingly. Sherlock glowered but relaxed somewhat. If it had been anyone else but John, he would not have let that pass.

He was saved from having to try and talk his way out of eating by the ring of the room's phone. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock sprang to answer it. His alacrity was rewarded; a courier package had come for him downstairs. He ordered it sent up and within a few minutes a staff member was knocking at the door.

Sherlock dispensed with the girl and sat down on the couch again, tearing open the envelope.

"Oi, gloves!" John said and Sherlock scowled but pulled a pair from the box Anderson had given him yesterday, accompanied by one of her pointed looks. Sherlock pulled out the letter and John joined him on the couch, looking over his shoulder, resting lightly against his right arm, creating a small patch of warmth.

The sketch was done with more skill this time; Sherlock was no artist if only because he'd never applied himself, but he could see the change quite clearly. It contained two images, one of a cloak drawn in red and another of two brown curving lines that paralleled one another.

John sighed.

"Pass me the book," Sherlock ordered and John did so. Sherlock flipped it open and thumbed hurriedly through the chapters until he found the story he thought was looking for, some absurd tale of a girl with a red cloak being eaten by a talking wolf who was impersonating her grandmother. This only served to prove how utterly inobservant the majority of people were because _surely_ it should not be so difficult to distinguish one's diminutive bed-ridden grandmother from a large wild carnivore.

"What?" John asked.

"The story, John, in the story, the protagonist is going to the home of a relative wearing this red cloak, the significance of which seems poorly addressed, but that's irrelevant. Do you see?"

John frowned, thinking a minute, then shook his head.

"She walks towards the home of a relative and into certain danger."

"But Kelsi was going to her home."

"I admit it's not a perfect parallel, but when have we been asked to think in straight lines at any point during this investigation? Technically, it was _not_ Kelsi's home, because she could not own it at the age of ten, but the home of relatives – her father and mother."

John raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

"She didn't have a red cloak, though."

"No, she did not," Sherlock agreed. "However, the so-called heroine of this story – who seems to have no use but to make poor decisions and be saved by a woodcutter, might I add – is defined by her red cloak. It is really her sole distinguishing characteristic. Kelsi was _not_ defined by a red cloak, but the crime scene, such as it was, was defined in part by a blue rain jacket. A young girl, headed toward a relative's, with distinctively coloured outerwear."

John gave him a puzzled look but Sherlock was pulling out his phone, dialling Anderson's number.

"Inspector? Brilliant. You need to take us to where Kelsi was abducted. Immediately."

* * *

><p><em>Again!<em> Sherlock thought with a growl, although this time it was not the presence of large numbers of people complicating matters but their absence.

A non-descript residential street in a fairly well-to-do neighbourhood, all detached houses and large old trees that cast shade and hid windows and provided privacy. In the middle of the day it was largely deserted, very few vehicles, no hint of courier vans, no cabs – everyone here likely had their own vehicles – home to professionals who worked long hours, leaving the street with an abandoned feel at this hour. No CCTV cameras, no old women watching nosily behind lace curtains. Sherlock could have done with either – the old women could be better than any security system at times.

"Little Red Riding Hood?" Anderson asked, staring at the letter he'd thrust at her when they arrived at the scene which, after nearly ten years, was no longer a scene. "Are you bloody serious?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock snapped, turning slowly again, drinking it all in. Silent, empty houses. Adults at work, children at school. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary because there had been no one here _to_ notice. Five blocks from her school to her home. This was halfway between each, the perfect location.

"So now he's using nursery rhymes and fairy tales to send us clues to a little girl's murder. This is sick!"

"I don't disagree, Inspector," Sherlock murmured. "Although I have no control over the content."

"I didn't say you did," Anderson shot back. She sighed and Sherlock didn't bother sparing her a glance; the frustration and disgust was more than evident in her voice. He rather believed she should be encouraged by this, since it was more contact that had been initiated in the past decade. But he supposed she was more likely to loathe the crime and the killer.

Personal, of course. After ten years, how could it not be? Failure, although not of her own making. And she had two daughters of her own. She'd have imagined how losing them would have made her feel. Empathic and typical.

"John, what's missing?" Sherlock asked softly, still turning slowly in place.

"Um," John said, glancing around too quickly, not picking up on the details. "People?"

"Yes, obvious. What else?"

John kept looking and Anderson turned slowly as well, both of them searching. Sherlock stopped; he hadn't seen it either, because it wasn't there to see.

"I don't know," John said after a moment. "Vehicles? Traffic?"

"No. Absent at this time of day because everyone is at work. What else?"

John tried again, then shook his head in defeat, turning his gaze to Sherlock.

"Holmes, Watson, Anderson," Sherlock said.

"But we're all here," Anderson replied.

"Not us, the name. Inspector, Kelsi's school, did it have the name 'Murray' in it?"

"What? No, it doesn't," Anderson replied.

"And there's nothing here that does, either," Sherlock mused, half to himself.

"There could be a dozen Murrays on this street for all we know," Anderson replied.

"Yes, but we can't _see_ them. He wants us to keep moving, follow the path."

"What, go to her old house?"

"No, I don't think so. The Murrays no longer live there and unless it's another family of Murrays occupying that residence, it seems unlikely. And she never made it to the house. The school, Inspector, are there any businesses near the school?"

"Ah, I think so. It's a bit less residential there."

"Good, let's go."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had dispensed with Anderson's protests that they should take the car. It was three blocks and the idea of driving was inane. He liked to move, to feel as though he were in the chase – and he knew John liked it too. The adrenaline kicked in, making everything stand out in sharper contrast, the green of the budding leaves on the trees, the cracks in the pavement, the sound of their shoes on the concrete, each of them distinctive, the pattern of their breathing, the hum of passing cars, the hubbub of children's voices at the school.<p>

"Here," Anderson said, slowing and gesturing to the chain-link fence that separated the school grounds from the street. It appeared to be lunch recess and masses of children occupied the playground, running about madly, shrieking and laughing. Sherlock glared mildly at them; he'd despised school as a child – boring teachers, stupid pupils. It was a pity that the school systems didn't do a better job encouraging people to think rather than moulding them into small, mindless drones.

He glanced at John and re-evaluated that, then at Anderson and added another addendum to the list.

"No shops here," Sherlock said, glancing about.

"Other side," the inspector said. "I told you we should have taken the car."

Sherlock ignored this, turning to look across the school yard and could just make out what looked like a promising set of shops in the near distance. He glanced up the street, evaluating the perimeter of the school's property – too large to be bothered with.

He was up and over the fence before the inspector was even aware that he was moving.

"Oi!" she cried.

"Coming or not?" Sherlock tossed over his shoulder. He heard John on the fence behind him, employing some of his most choice army curses and then another set of limbs following – good. He grinned fiercely, finding his stride again and heard Anderson shout for him to wait.

"You can't just barrel through a schoolyard!" the inspector yelled behind him.

"Clearly I can!" Sherlock shot back and kept going, surprised to hear her footsteps catching up with him. John was almost alongside him now but he was an old hand at keeping pace with Sherlock and occasionally even outdid him. The doctor flashed a grin, his eyes bright from the adrenaline rush.

Someone else was running toward them, a woman waving her hands, yelling at them, her words not quite reaching them.

"You can't be here!" he finally heard. "School property!"

"Police!" Anderson bellowed in return and the teacher stopped short, presumably at the sight of Anderson's badge. "Let us through!"

The teacher stared, her reactions delayed by shock, and Sherlock repressed a roll of the eyes – she was clearly not in command her instincts. She was watching them in astonishment, eyes wide, mouth open, making her look like a startled fish. The children on the other hand seemed to have decided this was a brilliant turn of events and Sherlock suddenly found they had a small crowd of shrieking and delighted runners chasing after them.

_Blast!_ he thought, putting on more speed. They didn't lose the last of their tiny pursuers until they'd cleared the fence on the other side, however, and the students pressed up against the chain-link, yelling and shrieking.

"This way!" Sherlock said, turning to his right and jogging away, if only to escape the children who were still clambering for their attention, entranced with the novelty of a police chase across their playground.

He stopped when they were reasonably out of sight and glanced around. The area was a mixture of small businesses, row houses, the school behind them and one or two local cafés and pubs.

"What now?" John asked, leaning over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

"There," Sherlock said, pointing up the street.

"What?" Anderson demanded.

"There. Murray's Hardware."

"How the bloody hell did you do that?" she demanded, shooting him a glare and he noted the impressed look on her face. _Well, as it should be_, he thought with some satisfaction.

"Genius," he said and John laughed. Anderson rolled her eyes.

The hardware store was a small local place completely unlike the giant shop in which Holly had worked when Sherlock had first met the budding forensic artist. To his mind, this place was claustrophobic and crowded, the narrow aisles bristling with all manner of gardening implements, devices, seemingly random displays and stacks of boxes. He kept himself contained, arms close to his sides, not wanting to jostle anything – or be jostled by anything, rather.

A small bell set on the door had tinkled when they entered but no one was in evidence. Anderson pulled out her badge, glaring about the store as if the absence of staff was personally offensive, but a moment later, they heard footsteps and a young male voice called:

"Coming!"

A young man in jeans, an old grey t-shirt and a blue smock appeared from one of the crowded aisles and stopped short, staring at them.

Staring at _him_, Sherlock realised.

"No bloody way," the young man breathed. "You're him!"

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding! This is really bloody creepy, mate."

"What's creepy?" Anderson demanded, flashing her badge.

The young man shook his head, focusing quickly on the inspector and Sherlock saw him note that Anderson was an attractive woman. He refrained from rolling his eyes – Anderson was a good twenty years this man's senior and an on-duty police inspector as well.

"I was _just_ looking you up!" the young man said with obvious excitement. "I mean, just now, in the back! I figured a name like yours, it couldn't be common. Found your website and everything! And here you are, right in the flesh!"

"And why would you be looking me up?" Sherlock enquired, keeping his voice cool so as not to encourage further hysterics.

"Because someone left something for you. Come here. On the counter. I was in the back with another customer, right, and I heard someone come in but didn't think about it. Never heard them leave, though, but when I came up front there was this–"

He circled round the counter and pulled out an envelope from beneath the cash register. Anderson held out a hand when Sherlock went to take it.

"Put it on the counter," she said. "Prints."

The young man put it down and Sherlock stepped up to read the address information.

_Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Anna Anderson_.

"Figured I wouldn't find anything online that was useful for John Watson and Anna Anderson, but Sherlock Holmes? How many people are named Sherlock, mate? Just you! Also, this."

He pulled out a pair of clippers and set them next to the envelope.

"These are _not_ from our store, I can tell you that! Look them up online and they're bloody expensive, way better than anything we sell here!" he said with an excited grin. "Someone left them for you and you're some famous detective! This is brilliant! Is this like some sort of clue for a murder or a giant conspiracy?"

Sherlock ignored him, leaning down to get a better look at the clippers, frowning slightly as recognition flashed through him.

"Do you know what these are?" he asked, glancing back at John and Anderson.

"Garden trimmers, aren't they?" Anderson asked, frowning. John was mirroring her expression but waiting for the explanation.

"Yes, but specifically for flowers. In fact, this particular kind is most commonly used for roses."


	10. Chapter 10

"Roses?" Anderson asked.

"How do you know that?" John asked at the same time.

"Yes, roses," Sherlock said, glancing at Anderson, then looking at John. "The gardens at the Buckinghamshire house have roses, John. I'm familiar with the implements necessary for their cultivation."

John looked surprised but nodded and Anderson looked somewhat confused. Well he didn't have time to explain the details of his childhood to her. They were irrelevant anyhow.

"Did you check the whole store?" he demanded of the clerk.

"Yeah, 'course. But no one was here. I don't know how he got out without me hearing him – sneaky bastard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Really, did people deliberately turn off their brains? It was too depressing.

"First, you were distracted with another customer and less inclined to hear the bell so soon after it had just sounded. Second, it's a small bell attached to the handle of the door. Anyone could hold it while going out and keep hold of it until the door was almost shut, effectively silencing it."

The clerk stared at him, then grinned.

"Brilliant!" he said.

It wasn't, it _really_ wasn't. It was simple and obvious. The look on Anderson's face told him she thought the same.

"Does that security camera work?" Sherlock asked, stabbing a finger at the camera above the counter.

"Yeah, I think so," the clerk replied and Sherlock despaired again for humanity. As if sensing this, John took a step toward Sherlock to stand next to him as Anderson took over the conversation.

"Show me where you keep your security equipment," she ordered and the young man grinned at her again. Sherlock was willing to let her command the conversation because the young man was clearly more interested in her and it meant he had to contend less with the clerk's stupidity.

He felt John's thumb brushing the inside of his wrist once, twice, a soothing gesture. Sherlock took the hint to relax, drawing in a deep breath very slowly, then John's hand dropped away. It was enough contact to keep him from losing his patience but not enough to make him want anything more from John. It was a delicate balance, because Sherlock's body often had different ideas than his mind when it came to intimacy with John on cases, and John walked that fine line perfectly.

_Almost_ perfectly. Although Sherlock strongly suspected that when John did go too far, he was doing so deliberately while pretending to have made a mistake.

They followed the excited clerk into a tiny office at the back of the store where an out-of-date and poorly maintained security system was showing feed from three cameras about the store: the one at the front and two in either back corner.

"Let me," Sherlock said before the clerk could muck it up and erase the entire day's worth of security footage. The young man seemed eager to let Sherlock do whatever he wanted, and this kind of admiration was generally welcome – it was warranted, after all – but at the moment it simply grated. There were more pressing matters at stake.

"How long ago was this left?" Anderson demanded.

"I dunno, ten, maybe fifteen minutes," the young man said.

_Twenty-one minutes_, Sherlock though, isolating the moment on the video playback. Unsurprising, really, that the young man could not keep decent track of time, being as easily distracted as he was.

"Inspector, look," Sherlock said, jabbing a finger at the screen. Anderson leaned over and so did John and even the excitable clerk.

Not that there was anything to see. A young man, probably in his late teens given the build and the slouching posture and walk, face hidden by a ball cap, head down, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He must have known where the camera was, though, because not once did he raise his head, even slightly, to give them a glimpse of his face. He had set the clippers and the envelope on the counter and slunk back out, holding the bell as he left, just as Sherlock had suspected.

And he'd been wearing gloves, so there would be no prints on the clippers, the door or the bell.

"Damn," Anderson said, clearly noting the same thing. "All right, I want all of your security footage since Friday. Do you have any cameras outside the store?"

The clerk shook his head and Anderson muttered a curse, chewing on her lower lip.

"Right, well someone around here is bound to. Sherlock, rose clippers?"

Sherlock sat back in the sole chair and stared thoughtfully at the screen as the clerk busied himself getting their security tapes for him. He'd be surprised if they revealed anything – the person who had delivered the clippers and the envelope was clearly not their killer, unless he'd been a professional by the time he was eight. More likely hired for a small sum to do as instructed. It was astonishing was people would do for fifty quid. Sherlock knew this from experience because he'd availed himself of the tendency to accept any small assignment without questions if money was offered.

"There was a reference to roses in the book," Sherlock said, trying to shift through the memories of those blasted stories. "Briar Rose, I think."

"Sleeping Beauty," Anderson sighed. "Good god, I hate this guy."

"I knew it!" the clerk said. "It's a murder, isn't it? Did I have an actual murderer in my store?"

"No, you most certainly did not," Sherlock snapped coldly and saw John roll his eyes at the question.

"Get me the rest of those tapes," Anderson insisted. "Then get back out front. We'll call you if we need you."

The young man seemed disappointed but complied, finding the rest of the tapes for them but obviously taking his time. A captain's glower from John sped him up a bit and Sherlock offered his husband a brilliant smile when the clerk's back was turned and got a wry twitch of the lips in return.

Finally, their eager clerk left and Anderson made a fist, pressing against her forehead.

"This is so sick," she muttered. "Sleeping Beauty. Who _is_ this sadist?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and she sighed.

"Any connection between Kelsi Murray and a spinning wheel?" he enquired.

Anderson stared at him a moment, then gave a sharp, dry laugh.

"Ha! Not that ever came up in the investigation. All right. You two. You are now temporarily granted all the rights and privileges of full members of the Lothian and Borders Police, because I am going to get the car. Please don't shoot anyone. I need to get all this back to the station and get a canvas of the area set up. And you, Mister Holmes, need to check back at the hotel for any more bloody letters."

* * *

><p>"<em>Sherlock!<em>"

John was pretty sure that Sherlock had no good grasp of the saying "he's about to climb the walls" but his ignorance might not prevent him from actually doing so.

Their hotel room was a disaster and John had left the "do not disturb" sign hanging on the door the past few days of fear of what would happen if the cleaners came in. Not only was the evidence that Anderson had gathered strewn all over the coffee table, now pretty much everything was torn apart as Sherlock tried to distract himself.

The bed looked like it had been bombed – and John would know – because Sherlock had actually been jumping on it, arguing with John that it helped him think. He'd never seen Sherlock do this before, but at home he had his violin and his chemistry set and people like Sam and Lestrade and Tricia to harass if John wasn't available.

John had managed to get him to stop doing this, but then Sherlock had taken up pacing, not just on the floor but across the couch, on the bed, on the chairs. John had _just_ kept him from clambering onto the desk or the dresser, not at all convinced either could hold that much weight.

Sherlock had thrown cushions and pillows at the walls while ranting to John about their killer and the stupidity of the clues and probably would have pitched the book of fairy tales at the wall as well, or out the window, if John hadn't yanked it from his hand.

He'd refused anything to eat, tipping the fish and chips John had bought him all over the floor and that's when John lost his cool as well.

"For god's sake!" John snapped.

"I don't want to _eat_!" Sherlock hissed, pushing himself from the cushionless couch to tower of John. John stood his ground – he hated when Sherlock used his height against him, but it didn't happen very often. He was fairly certain Sherlock didn't even think about doing it consciously, not the way he did with other people.

"Why, why is he doing this?" Sherlock growled, tensing his fingers so that they were half curled, almost claw-like, then gripping John's arms and holding fast, glaring hard at the doctor as if John were at fault.

"I don't know," John replied, working to keep his voice level. The last thing they needed now was to get into a row over nothing because Sherlock was worked up. John pushed aside the thought that he was almost always the one to keep calm in these situations, to diffuse them. Really, he was just as irate and losing his patience quickly, too.

"Maybe he's making us wait," John suggested.

"Wait? Wait! Why, John, why would he do that? We don't need to wait!"

"Sherlock, you said yourself this was at his whims. We just need to be patient."

"Patient?" Sherlock snarled, his voice dropping an octave, shuddering through John. "Patient! I don't have time for patience!"

The statement almost made John smile but he repressed it, knowing Sherlock would take it the wrong way.

It had been a day since the clippers had been left at the hardware store for them and their killer had gone suddenly quiet. No letter in the post the previous day or today, nothing from a courier that morning or early afternoon.

Just an abrupt silence.

"_Wait_," Sherlock muttered again, releasing John and the doctor teetered a bit at the sudden lack of contact because Sherlock had been holding him quite hard. Thankfully, John didn't bruise easily. He could only imagine how poorly it would sit with Sherlock if he caused unintentional bruises that had nothing to do with pleasure.

"Yes, wait," John sighed.

"Moriarty never made us wait!" Sherlock shot back at him, raking his fingers into his hair.

"That is not bloody true," John snapped. "He made us wait all the time. And this _isn't_ Moriarty, so stop it. You said yourself the vote is next Tuesday. It's Wednesday. He's just stringing us along."

Sherlock paced away from John then rounded on him again, nostrils flaring.

They needed to get out of the hotel room, John realised. Sherlock needed to burn off some of this steam.

"Come on, we're going out," he said, gathering his phone and wallet.

"No!" Sherlock contradicted. "What if he sends something?"

"Then Blake will call you."

Sherlock stopped suddenly and stared at John blankly.

"The concierge you've been bribing?" John said. "That's his name. Blake Drummond."

Sherlock stared at John a moment longer, then gave a brisk nod, his expression suddenly indicating that he had only momentarily forgotten that and John held back a slight scowl; that was a total lie. He'd had no idea, but it wasn't surprising and John let it slide – of course he hadn't known.

He remembered the victim's name and actually used it rather than just calling her "the girl" or, even worse, "the dead girl". John really couldn't argue with that improvement.

He was actually looking forward to some fresh air and so was not at all surprised when Sherlock's phone rang. The detective leapt for it, scattering aside a mess of papers that had joined the general disorder on the bed and answered it quickly. Despite his hurry, there was no urgency in his voice when he spoke.

"Yes, Inspector?"

He had it on speaker for John's benefit and the doctor did not miss the irritation in the policewoman's voice on the other end of the line.

"You two need to get down here. Now."

Sherlock was about to ask why but she rung off without warning and John wondered how much her patience was being tested at the moment, too. Sherlock cocked a dark eyebrow at John, grey eyes bright, and the doctor sighed.

"Let's go," he said.

* * *

><p>Anderson was waiting for them at the main entrance to the station, green eyes livid, normally pale skin flushed red, her lips pursed into a thin line.<p>

"Inspector?" Sherlock asked and John got the impression Sherlock was suddenly cautious of this woman and even slightly concerned about whatever had set her off.

"Just come see," she snapped, her voice dark and taut. She spun on her heel, stalking back into the station, nearly colliding with a startled constable whose only crime was trying to exit at the same time she'd decided to go back in.

John felt himself growing worried as well. Anderson had been investigating this case for ten years so she must have felt her fair share of frustration before this point. But she was fairly seething now and John had the distinct sense that she was keeping herself from snapping with a lot of effort, given how tense she looked, how the tendons in her neck jumped out when she set her jaw and swallowed.

"A bloody police station and no one thinks this is a problem," she growled when she'd taken them to her work area and jabbed an accusing finger at her desk. "Oh, it's just flowers, isn't it, Inspector? From who?"

John managed to repress a groan and saw Sherlock blink, the only indication that he was really surprised.

Her desk was covered with vases of roses in a splash of colour: red, white, pink and yellow and even one with white petals tipped with deep red.

Sherlock stepped forward carefully, circling her desk, ignoring the other officers watching them, watching him, really, and pulled out her chair, sinking down into it slowly. He kept his hands and arms from the desk, leaning forward only slightly, eyes moving slowly across each vase.

"Ten in each," he said softly.

"Bloody arse–" Anderson said, then cut herself off, biting her lower lip. "Sorry, Doctor, sorry."

"I was in the army," John commented dryly. "Believe me, I've heard worse." He'd used worse only the previous day.

She gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"Yes, ten in each vase. One of every year Kelsi had lived. Pretty much one for every year she's been dead, almost. Minus six months. What the hell is he trying to say?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on the flowers. John knew his husband had pretty much torn apart the Sleeping Beauty story, dissecting every word, looking for some hint of meaning in a sentence, in a description. He'd scoured maps of the city looking for some connection between roses and the name Murray and had come up utterly empty handed.

It didn't even seem like there was a link to John. There were a few flower shops with Murray in the name, of course, but none of them were near where Kelsi had been kidnapped. Anderson had sent officers round to all of them anyway, but nothing had been left for them. There was no hint that those places mattered.

"It doesn't make sense," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands in prayer pose. "What does he want us to see? Kelsi Murray and the roses? Kelsi Murray and the thorns?"

He extended an arm slowly and John expected Anderson to stop him, but she didn't. Carefully, Sherlock pulled one of the red roses from a vase, drawing it out and twirling it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

"But which one? The thorn or the rose?"

John anticipated the gasp before he heard it because he felt Anderson stiffen beside him. He shifted his attention to her quickly, noting that Sherlock did the same, and where the Inspector had been livid and flushed before, she was pale now, green eyes and red hair contrasting too starkly with her suddenly white skin.

John wrapped his hands around her arms as Sherlock pushed himself to his feet.

"Anna!" the doctor snapped but she wasn't looking at him, she was staring at Sherlock, green eyes blazing.

"I have two daughters, Mister Holmes," she managed. "Sarah Elizabeth and Jillian Rose."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock held up his hands in a pacifying gesture and saw Anderson note the movement, flashing to them before meeting his eyes again. The detective had reason to appreciate John's medical background yet again – the doctor had the inspector by the arms and was speaking to her in a calm, level voice, keeping her focused.

"Where is Jillian right now?" Sherlock asked equally as calmly, schooling his expression into neutral as he tried to run through any possible connections, to remember anything Anderson might have said about her children or anything that may have been in Mycroft's files. But there were no data – Mycroft had collected names and ages and that was it. Anderson's daughters weren't relevant to the investigation.

Until now.

The inspector's eyes narrowed somewhat as she thought.

"Cricket Scotland," she said. "She's on girl's youth team. They've having a training camp this week with the women's national team. And– Kelsi played cricket, too. In a kid's league."

"Same organization?" Sherlock asked.

"No, Jill's older than Kelsi was when she disappeared. She's thirteen." She paused and drew a deep breath, then nodded to John, who released her carefully. Then the inspector turned away from the doctor and from Sherlock and swept her eyes over the other officers who were watching apprehensively.

Before she could even speak, another inspector was picking up his desk phone.

"Sarah's school, I'm on it. I'll get a patrol team down there just in case and send one round to your house, too."

Anderson exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Derrick. Right, Detective, Doctor, come on. We're going up to the pitch right now."

* * *

><p>In the warm spring air outside the station, Sherlock plucked the keys from Anderson's hands, moving so quickly she didn't have time to react. She started visibly, turning to look at him, squinting against the sun, then glared.<p>

"John, you drive. I'll navigate."

"What?" John demanded, catching the keys when Sherlock tossed them to him, giving Sherlock a look that asked if he knew his way around Edinburgh off the top of his head like he did with London. Sherlock sighed and held up his phone – Edinburgh would have been a simple task to learn if he lived there; it was significantly smaller than London. But he had no intentions of relocating and his knowledge was fairly confined to the core, where he had so far spent the majority of his visits.

"This is a police vehicle!" Anderson snapped.

"And you granted us the rights of full members of the Lothian and Borders Police yesterday," Sherlock pointed out. "John is an experienced military man; he can drive a small car in a small city. I need you to focus and talk to me about this case and your daughter."

He didn't add "and not panic" because she wasn't going to. But the tension was enough to allow for the possibility of recklessness, particularly in a speeding police car. Sherlock had no issues with danger but neither did he have any desire to end his life in a crumpled heap of metal with an unsolved case hanging over him and another young girl in potential danger.

Anderson gave him another glare for good measure and then relented, slipping into the back seat. Sherlock took the front passenger's seat and called up directions from their current location to their destination, eyeing them quickly to determine if the map software had indeed given them the quickest, most direct route. John was taking a moment to familiarise himself with the vehicle, then put it in gear.

"Northwest, John, then straight on until East Market Street. Inspector, personal connections to the case, quickly."

"What, you mean aside from the fact that I've been working it for ten years?"

"That need not make it personal."

There was a momentary silence from the back seat and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. Anderson's green eyes met his grey ones.

"You really aren't a regular cop," she said, but there was no bite in her voice, mere observation. Sherlock glanced back at his phone to keep her from seeing the slight scowl but noted the faint change in John's breathing that signalled something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

"Some of them become personal," she continued and Sherlock switched his gaze to the road, watching the streets that flew past, marking them off mentally. "For me, this one of them."

Another faint huff from John; he agreed with that, too. Sherlock didn't consider which medical cases had become personal for his husband. There were too many from which to choose, too many of them in the past before they'd known one another, names and locations that meant nothing to Sherlock, details John never shared.

"Anything else?" Sherlock pressed. "Any connection between you and the victim?"

"If there was, I wouldn't be on the case," Anderson pointed out.

"You never met James Murray?"

"Not before his daughter disappeared."

"Do you know anyone who knows him? Any political connections through friends or colleagues?"

"I'm a cop, Detective, of course some of my colleagues have political connections. Higher up than me, though, especially back then. It was my second major case after making inspector. First one that didn't get solved. But no, I don't know anyone who knew James Murray before then. Or any of his family."

"Your friend who works at the palace?"

"Robert? No. He retired only two years ago. If he knows anyone now, I don't know about it. But what about you?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder again, then back.

"Straight on, John, keep following the A8. It'll go right, stay on it."

John gave a curt nod, eyes on the road. Sherlock was grateful John had a valid license and plenty of experience; he'd let his own license lapse years ago and had never been keen on driving anyhow.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked Anderson.

"How does your brother know Murray?"

Sherlock hesitated – he had no idea. It had never seemed important. He had only ever looked into it because Mycroft had asked him to, so there certainly was no personal connection for him. He did not keep track of Mycroft's contacts because doing so would require far too much effort and take up far too much space in his brain.

He'd known nothing of the case initially; he'd only been introduced to it a year later when Mycroft had received the first of his letters and had asked Sherlock to have a look at it. Bored at the time, Sherlock had. And had found nothing.

Now he wished he had enquired as to how Mycroft knew Murray, why his brother had taken this case. Was it important? It may well not be, but it had been remiss of him not to find out.

Not that Mycroft would have given him a straight answer anyway.

"I don't know," he said shortly.

Anderson gave an impatient huff that Sherlock ignored.

"What about your daughters?" he pressed.

"Different schools, different ages, different social circles, different hobbies, except for cricket. But Kelsi just played for fun, Mister Holmes. Jill plays competitively. And she's good."

There was a note of pride there that she was unable to suppress.

_What are we missing?_ he asked himself.

"The vote," he said suddenly. "John, straight on until the B900 then left. What's the vote on Monday?"

"Military budget stuff," John said promptly, without even thinking about it. Sherlock glanced at his husband – of course he would know about that. Sherlock cursed Mycroft for not having mentioned it and himself for not having considered it important until now. But surely there had been other votes on military matters in the years between the girl's death and now?

This was maddening – the motive for her death was clear. The motive for the killer and his employer getting their attention now was not.

"James Murray wasn't in the military," Sherlock said with certainty. He'd read the case files enough times to know.

"No," Anderson agreed. "But he's still an Independent. His vote could make a difference."

"Yes, but why this one? Why now? Unimportant," he added quickly,.

"Is it?"

"To us, yes. The point is to deter Murray from voting. It doesn't matter why. Not for our purposes. We need to find Kelsi's body. That is all they want from us. The political machinations are beyond our scopes and are likely _why_ they've chosen now to act, but it wouldn't matter if it were today or last year or a year from now. They won't give us that information."

"Politics," Anderson sighed.

"Yes, but not for us. For us, simply murder."

He was suddenly annoyed at Mycroft – more so than normal – for dragging him into a political mess, for being involved with any of this in the first place. As Anderson had said, it only complicated matters, muddied the waters and made motivations and actions difficult to determine let alone interpret.

Too many unknown variables. Too much time. Too many people connected to the case, both as suspects and investigators. How many eyes had seen the case for Mycroft? How many people had investigated it? How much manpower had it consumed here?

These were the wrong questions, he knew.

_Who are you and where did you bury the girl?_ It occurred to him suddenly that they may not answer the first question and this was unacceptable. John had pressed him to take the case to find the murdered girl's body but that was only part of the puzzle. The smaller part.

"Merge onto the A90, then second left for Owen Kelly Place," Sherlock said, glancing at his phone and John grunted his assent.

_You evaded my brother for nearly ten years_, he thought. _You will not elude me._

A smile twitched on his lips. Yes, that was the game. Kelsi Murray was the bait being dangled in front of them, but Sherlock didn't need to know where she was. Her father did, and Anderson, and probably even John. But there was so much more going on here.

"We're here," John said but Anderson was already scrambling out of the car as John cut the engine and left the lights flashing. Sherlock hurried out as well, hearing John's door slam behind him a moment later, and they were chasing Anderson, who was forcing even Sherlock into a faster stride than normal to keep up. She dispensed with any questions by flashing her badge and identifying herself as a police officer.

Sherlock slowed and let her go. He took in the pitch and the stands quickly, evaluating everyone he could see – two teams: a professional women's team and the adolescents' team, as well as coaches and a few spectators, also players by the looks of them – mostly male, so waiting on their own practices, just coming off of them, or associated with some of the current players. All of them looked startled to some degree by the sudden arrival but no one looked guilty. No one stood out, no one seemed out of place. Sherlock stopped as Anderson ran toward the knot of players and held up a hand when John halted fast beside him to keep the doctor from speaking. John swallowed on whatever he was going to say and Sherlock turned slowly, patterning his breathing to his movements, and focused.

No one in the shadows, no one hidden anywhere, no one shouldn't be there.

"He's not here," Sherlock said and felt John relax in relief. He turned back when he heard Anderson shouting something and gestured for John to follow. Anderson was standing with a young woman who would be taller than her mother with the same red hair and pale skin but more of her father than her mother in her features. Her hazel eyes flashed from Anderson to Sherlock and then John then back to her mother.

"Mum, what's going on? Is Sarah all right?"

"Sarah's fine," Anderson said, gripping her daughter's arms. "Are you?"

"Yeah, Mum, of course. Why wouldn't I be? We've only just gone in to warm up. What's going on? And who are they?"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Sherlock replied and Jillian glanced back at them, slightly startled by the English accent. She looked Sherlock up and down, then John, then Sherlock again.

"Oi, you're not half pale, are you?" she asked and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Jill!" her mother snapped and the young woman refocused. "Listen to me, no one followed you here, did they? You haven't seen anyone odd hanging about?"

"No, Mum, it's just us. And some of the lads are watching, but that's it." She pointed to their scatter of spectators.

Anderson released her daughter and took a step back, sighing in relief.

"Mum, what is it? Why are you so worked up?"

"Work stuff, sweetheart. I'm going to send an officer round to keep an eye on things here."

"What? No! I don't need a bloody cop watching me practice!"

"They won't be watching you, they'll be watching out for someone I'm looking for. And you _will_ put up with it, because I am your mother and you are thirteen. When practice is over, I want you to go home with him or her and not Monica, do you understand?"

"Mum!"

"Jill."

The girl slouched, tilting her head to the sky and looked annoyed. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow upwards and quite hoped Josephine was not going to act like this when she was thirteen. He allowed himself to conveniently forget what he'd been like at that age.

"All right," the girl muttered and Anderson nodded, then kissed her daughter soundly on the forehead to Jillian's muttered protests.

"Good. I'll see you tonight. I love you. Come on," she said then, gesturing to Sherlock and John. "I'll call in a patrol officer and we can get back to St. Leonard's. I suppose it might be worth chasing down the florist that delivered those blasted flowers."

Jillian gave them a quizzical look but was deterred by her mother's warning glare. Once they got out of earshot, Sherlock said:

"There's no one here who shouldn't be."

Anderson shot him a quick look.

"You know that, do you?"

"Yes," he said simply. "But why here? Why now? Why the roses and your daughter?"

"I don't want to think about it," Anderson murmured.

"I do," Sherlock replied, stopping, putting a hand on John's arm and he stopped as well, giving Sherlock a puzzled but patient look. Anderson went a few more steps, then halted, turning back to face them and crossing her arms. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"John, he sent us a letter with our names, he wants us to pay attention to the names, we know. But not our names, the focus here is Murray. This is about Kelsi Murray. He took us to her school and then to the hardware store but then he led us to the roses. Ten of each to the inspector because Kelsi was ten years old or it was almost ten years ago, and ten vases, same pattern. Roses that link the case to Anderson's daughter, who is linked to Kelsi not just by her mother but through a shared hobby. And– what? No indication he's been here and unlikely to try anything with this many witnesses given how carefully he chose the location for Kelsi's abduction. Murray, Sleeping Beauty – Briar Rose, I suppose – Jillian Rose and now Cricket Scotland."

He stopped and John held his silence. Sherlock thought, running through his words again, then snapped his eyes open.

"The hardware store. Inspector, where are we, right now?"

She gave him a look that suggested, against all available evidence, that he was an idiot.

"Cricket Scotland. You just said."

"No, but where? In the city, I mean, what area is this?"

Anderson frowned thoughtfully, then her eyes widened.

"Murrayfield," she said.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, making a triumphant fist with his right hand. "This isn't about Jillian, he wants _us _here!"

"But Murrayfield is a big area," Anderson protested. "And there's a lot here with 'Murray' in the name, for the obvious reason."

"Yes, but it's still where he wants us to be," Sherlock said. "He used the names to lead us here."

"Brilliant," John groaned. "He has us right where he wants us."

"And if we have any hope of solving the case, that is where we have to be. I did say –"

"Yes, yes," John sighed. "Whims."

"So now what?" Anderson demanded. "We just wait for his next letter?"

"Yes. Because we know where to start when we receive it. We're close, Inspector. If you want to see this through, we do as he says."

She just shook her head and pulled out her phone, arranging for an officer to come keep an eye on the practice and then made them wait until the patrol car arrived. While Anderson was giving instructions to the constable, Sherlock's phone rang and he pulled it quickly out of his suit jacket, pleased to see that it was the hotel. John was watching him with a somewhat dismayed look when Sherlock grinned and rung off.

"Another letter," he confirmed and John rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"Why am I not surprised?" the doctor muttered.

"You are the one who asked me to take this case," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, yes, I know," John sighed.

Sherlock grinned, casting a quick glance at Anderson who was still in conversation with the constable. He took the moment of distraction to catch John's chin between his thumb and forefinger and steal a quick kiss.

"And I really must thank you, John," he murmured, seeing the bemusement in his husband's brown eyes. "I was wrong – this _isn't_ boring. This is brilliant."

John looked put upon and Sherlock ignored this, turning away when he heard Anderson coming back toward them.

"Inspector, another letter," he informed her. She looked surprised a moment, then nodded.

"Good. We'll stop by your hotel and pick it up, then we're going back to St. Leonard's to deal with that and the damn roses. Come on, get in. Doctor, the keys, if you'd be so kind? Thank you. Let's go."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock slipped out of the car when Anderson pulled up in front of their hotel on the wrong side of the street.

"Get the book, too!" she called after him and he raised a hand in acknowledgement.

Blake Drummond the concierge was grinning at him, holding the letter in a smartly gloved hand and Sherlock exchanged it for a fifty this time, getting a surprised look. Blake pulled the door open for him and Sherlock hurried up to his room, fetched the book of blasted fairy tales and joined John and the inspector in the car again.

He tossed the book on the seat between himself and John and slit open the envelope with a long index finger. The envelope was heavier than normal; their correspondent had included pictures. Sherlock could tell that without having looked and was unsurprised to find two photographs encased in a thin piece of paper.

He opened the letter and frowned at it, John leaning over to see.

"It's a drawing of some birds and some – small circles," he said for Anderson's benefit.

"Breadcrumbs," John said.

"Breadcrumbs?"

"Hansel and Gretel," Anderson sighed from the front seat, a hint of anger slipping into her voice. Sherlock sifted quickly through his memories – yes, there it was, the tale of two children being abandoned in the woods by an evil step-mother (of course, how predictable) and falling under threat of being consumed by a witch. He found all of this unlikely, particularly the idea of using breadcrumbs as a means of navigation. Surely the children could attempt to memorise their surroundings as they were taken into the woods? He'd done so himself in the patch of woods on the manor grounds when he'd been a child. It was one of the first places he recalled deliberately instructing himself to remember routes.

Sherlock nodded to himself. He'd have to reread the story in question once they arrived at St. Leonard's but the photographs bore immediate attention. He held them up slightly for John to see as well.

"What is it?" Anderson asked.

"Photographs," Sherlock replied. "One of a stone dog, a Skye terrier I believe, and the other of what looks like some sort of monument."

"What, Greyfriar's Bobby?" Anderson asked.

"I don't know. I'm not familiar with that."

"It's the dog. It's a story. I'll tell you when we get to the station. Pass them up a moment."

Sherlock leaned forward and did so. Anderson reached back to snag them while keeping her eyes on the road. She glanced at them each quickly, nodding.

"Yes, Greyfriar's Bobby. And that's the Scottish National War Monument in the other."

Sherlock saw John blink, shock filling then draining from his features, his eyes widening and lips parting slightly.

Oh, that was not fair.

Sherlock took his husband's hand quickly and John glanced at him, his expression shuttering. In the brief flicker, Sherlock saw the reflected memory of the friend whose grave John had visited only a few days ago.

If the choice of location for the second photograph was personal and aimed at John, Sherlock was going to track down their killer and do some very creative and illegal things to him before turning him over to Anderson whom he suspect would not ask any questions.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"In this area," Anderson said, meeting his eyes briefly in the rear view mirror.

John gave Sherlock a confused look and the detective felt it mirrored in himself.

"Not in Murrayfield?" he asked to make sure.

"Not even close."

"Blast," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "What is he _doing_?"

Anderson only shook her head and passed the pictures back. Sherlock flipped open the book that had been sent to them, bending over the Hansel and Gretel story, rereading the notes he'd made in the margins.

They were close, he could feel it; the pieces were almost in place. It was maddening that they had no control, though – he had really believed they were being led to Murrayfield for a reason and now they'd been turned round and relocated to the centre of the city.

He pulled out his phone and checked the location for the subject of each photograph. Neither was particularly far from their hotel, he noted, but did not think this was relevant. The stories and the names were of importance here, not where he was staying. The Greyfriar's Bobby statue was next to Greyfriar's Kirk, across from the National Museum – he and John had gone there while in the city on their honeymoon.

The war memorial was in the Castle and Sherlock was vaguely uneasy with the fact that he'd been in the Castle within the past several days but this was coincidental. When he found a picture, he recognised it after a moment's reflection. John had stopped there for several long minutes, staring at it, lost in silent thought. John didn't speak much about Jamie, nor anyone else he'd known who had died.

He snapped the book shut with a sigh and put his phone away when they arrived at the police station.

In their absence, Kipling had made himself useful, at least. The roses had been cleared from Anderson's desk – presumably taken to evidence – and he had officers chasing down their source. The inspector who had taken the initiative to check on Anderson's other daughter reported that she was fine and that they had a unit stationed both at her school and Anderson's house.

Anderson briefed her boss on what they had learned that morning, which now seemed like frustratingly little. She then commandeered an interview room for the three of them and Sherlock accepted a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on before opening the book again. He knew his fingerprints were all over it but the look of things was important, at least here.

"What is the connection between two missing children and two tourist attractions?" Anderson asked, putting on a pair of gloves herself. John had disappeared for a moment to get them some water – he was of course concerned with proper hydration, even now.

"Aside from the number?" Sherlock said, shaking his head. "None as far as I can see. Tell me the story about the dog."

John came back in then and passed off a bottle that Sherlock took without comment.

"He was a Skye terrier who spent fourteen years guarding the grave of his dead master before dying himself. The accounts vary as to whether he was there the entire time or came and went for meals and to find shelter in bad weather, but it did actually happen. His owner was John Gray, who – ha! – was a night watchman for the Edinburgh police."

Sherlock gave her a long look, then sighed.

"This sounds unlikely," he said.

"It does, but there are enough records to suggest that it really happened. But it has the makings of a fairy tale, or at least a legend, doesn't it?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze back to the book.

"Perhaps if the dog was saved from a witch or granted some magical power," he commented, to which John snorted. "But you're right, Inspector. It _is_ a story and given that someone erected a statue to it, quite a powerful local one, I imagine. The connection there makes sense, but it's tenuous at best. We're still missing something. And the war memorial, what about that?"

Anderson thought a moment, then shook her head.

"As far as I know it's just a war memorial. I'm sure there are a lot of stories associated with it, but I don't know any. I don't know any soldiers, except for you now, Doctor."

Sherlock turned his eyes to John whose expression was closed.

"John, Jamie–"

"No," John said, cutting him off quickly. Sherlock paused then looked at Anderson, who nodded and rose, leaving the room quietly, pulling the door shut behind her but not latching it.

"This has nothing to do with me," John said.

"Your name was on the second letter as much as mine or Anderson's was."

"But all the letters are addressed to _you._ Or her. Except she hasn't got any letters since the one telling her to ring you. Okay, she got the roses, but the connection there was with Jillian. And the stories – I have lots of stories about Jamie, but nothing like this Greyfriar's dog or fairy tales or anything. They're just stories. And then he died. He was shot and he died. Just please leave it."

_He was there and then he wasn't_, Sherlock thought. _As was Kelsi._

But he let the subject go because he suspected John was right – if there was a connection to the war memorial through a story, it could be anyone's. And would probably be some tedious tale of bravery and one of those unlikely sets of coincidences that were mistaken as miracles.

He rose and opened the door, nodding for Anderson to come back in. She crossed to the table, sliding the book toward her.

"Let me see if I remember this right… Yes. The children were led to what was meant to be their deaths by their father."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He'd made that connection already.

"This _is_ sick," John muttered, his expression dark.

Anderson nodded, meeting John's brown eyes momentarily.

"As if it weren't bad enough for James Murray to lose his daughter – now this guy's suggesting it was his fault," she said.

"He may see it that way – or his employer may at any rate," Sherlock replied. "If Murray had consented to listen to them…"

"Do what we say and no one will get hurt," John sighed.

"Precisely," Sherlock agreed.

"Enough," Anderson said. "It's grim and disgusting and they know it. But we need to find the connection between the two monuments and Kelsi and maybe even Murrayfield."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not enough information," he said. "The obvious connection is death – a young girl is killed, a dog guards his dead master and then dies a decade and a half later, soldiers die and are commemorated. I suppose you could stretch it to government: Murray, the watchman and the military, but it's quite a tenuous connection and the deaths here are under varied and different circumstances."

"Right," Anderson sighed. "I'm going to send some officers round to both these places to check them out, just in case. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She returned bearing news that they had tracked down the shop from where the roses had been ordered – done online with a stolen credit card. Sherlock wished he could feel even minutely surprised by this. He refocused his attention on the story, chewing on his lower lip, trying to spot something he missed. He needed his violin.

His phone ringing distracted him and John and Anderson focused on him fast as he answered it.

"Blake, yes?" he asked, locking eyes with John.

"'Afternoon, Mister Holmes! You have another courier letter."

"Open it," Sherlock said abruptly. "I need you to open it and take a photo of it and email it to me."

"No, wait!" Anderson snapped, leaning forward, grabbing the phone from him before he could react. "Blake, this is Inspector Anna Anderson with the L&B. Do _not_ open that envelope! I am sending some police officers over to get it and they will open it, do you understand? Don't do anything with it until they get there, try not to even touch it as much as possible. Got it?"

There was a moment of silence, then Anderson nodded.

"Good." She rung off and handed the phone back to him. "Really? Chain of evidence, Sherlock? I need more assurance than some hotel clerk's word he can do the job."

Sherlock scowled at her but John grinned. She shot them both a look and left the room.

"You know, I think I love her," John commented.

Sherlock snorted.

"Congratulations, John. I'm sure you two will be very happy together."

John shot him another grin and leaned forward to kiss him.

"And what would I do without you?" he asked.

"Be very, very bored."

"I would at that," John agreed.

"All right," Anderson said, coming in a few minutes later. "That's sorted. Shouldn't be long. I'm going to send someone else for sandwiches. Want anything?"

Sherlock shook his head but John ordered for him anyway. Sherlock shot him a scowl for good measure that was entirely ignored. Anderson left again and came back, snagging a new pair of gloves. Before she could put them on, however, her phone rang and she took it out quickly, putting it on the table so the three of them could see it.

There were no drawings on this letter only two written lines:

2017-04-13, 1400  
>Decide<p>

Bright and sudden rage flooded through Sherlock.

"What?" Anderson said but he had already pushed himself to his feet, the chair clattering onto the hard floor as it fell, unheeded John giving him a startled look. He took two paces away then spun, pointing an accusing finger at the phone, flaring his nostrils as he sucked in a deep breath.

"No!" he snapped, striding back toward the table, leaning over the phone again. "No!"

"What?" Anderson demanded again.

Sherlock straightened and raked his hands through his hair, hissing out a breath.

"The breadcrumbs, oh yes. He's leading us to a resolution, isn't he? Guiding us to where we want to be. No, that is _not_ fair! Don't you see? Two possible locations: the memorial for the dog or the memorial for the soldiers. Two possible pieces of information: Kelsi's grave or his identity! He _wants_ us to have one or the other. He's giving us the last of the pieces – we're almost there – but he wants us to _choose_. He wants us to _decide._ Do we find the girl or do we find the killer?"


	13. Chapter 13

John closed his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Anderson snapped and he heard the soft click of her shoes on the hard floor. Her voice was cold, fraught with suspicion and anger.

Sherlock growled, the low sound making John snap his eyes back open, refocusing fast on his husband. The detective's own eyes were blazing a bright pale grey and he was raking his hands through his dark curls in sharp, agitated motions before releasing his hair and balling his hands into fists.

John shifted, muscles tensing slightly, old army training for being physically ready for a tense situation coming back to him.

"I mean he's giving us a choice. Tomorrow at two pm, we can either be at the Greyfriar's Bobby statue _or_ at the war monument and we'll either get information about where the girl is buried or about our killer. One or the other, not both. Because he wants us to decide between which is more relevant, and there's only one choice we _can_ make."

John saw it in Anderson's face, the instinctive reaction to make the choice she couldn't. He understood. He wanted the same thing.

He'd told Sherlock to take the case to help find a missing and murdered girl.

Now they wouldn't be able to.

Anderson sucked in a deep breath, her entire body rigid, and John switched his focus to her. There was a long moment when he could see her fighting herself for control, fighting against the rage that reflected clearly on her face.

"We don't know which is which," she pointed out, her voice strained under the effort it was taking not to shout. She took two more deep breaths and John's eyes flickered back to Sherlock.

"Yes, we do. He's been communicating with us in sayings and nursery rhymes and stories. You said it yourself, Inspector, there are likely many stories associated with the war monument, but you don't know them. I don't know them. John doesn't know them. If there's a specific story there, it's unknown to us. But the story about the dog… We can identify that. A loyal dog, guarding the grave of his owner. And a loyal father hoping to find his daughter's body. You _and_ my brother still looking into this case after ten years with the hope of somehow resolving it. All manner of loyalties, but all of them to a grave. That's where the information about Kelsi will be, Inspector, _and we can't be there._"

Anderson stared at him incredulously for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked toward the door, yanking it open.

"_Sir!_" she bellowed up the hallway and John saw Sherlock start slightly at the vehemence in her voice. He didn't blame her for the tone.

He remembered the feeling from Afghanistan.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and John saw the tension fall away from him so he seemed almost weightless for a moment. John recognised the acting skills but it still impressed him. Only a single breath to get the anger off of his face, out of his body, not visible even to John behind those grey eyes.

But it wasn't gone, no. John knew that.

Kipling came in a moment later, narrowing his eyes at the expression on Anderson's face.

"Sir, you have to hear this," the inspector said, her words clipped and sharp.

She gestured at Sherlock and Kipling gave him a glare for good measure, which the detective ignored. With patience that seemed almost superhuman to John – especially given how Sherlock normally was and how worked up he'd just been – he explained the situation again to the CI. Kipling stared at him a long moment after Sherlock had finished speaking, then glanced at Anderson then back again.

"Fine," he said. "We set up on both sites and send you, Holmes, to the war monument and Anna to the dog and catch this guy and find Kelsi Murray."

John couldn't repress the stab of relief even though he knew it would be too easy if it worked that way. Sherlock's eyes slid to him and there was a flash of an apology in them, too brief for anyone who wasn't John to catch.

"No," he said and Kipling's eyes narrowed again. "Sorry, Inspector, but no. That's not how it will work. No, stop, you misunderstand me. I'm not saying this isn't how I want it to work. It's not how _he_ wants it to work. The information will be given to me. Not to anyone else. Wherever I am, that's where we'll find what we're looking for."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kipling demanded.

"It's about me," Sherlock said unapologetically. "For nearly ten years, Inspector Anderson and my brother have each been getting the same letter with no deviation from the pattern. As soon as I'm meant to be in Edinburgh, Anderson receives a letter with a different message, instructing her to call me. I start receiving letters and these are substantially different than the messages from the previous nine and a half years in that they actually contain potential information. It isn't that _we_ have to decide, _I_ have to decide. He wants me to choose between finding him and finding the body because he knows there's only one choice that I can make."

"Why you?" Kipling asked, his voice dark. Sherlock hesitated then responded only with the smallest shake of his head, his curls shifting slightly. Kipling opened his mouth to retort, but Anderson beat him to it.

"He's right, sir. Every letter we got was addressed to him except the one for me that had _his_ phone number in it. Even the roses weren't for me, they were a message to get him up to Murrayfield. The connection was through me, that's all. We can set up as many people as we want at Greyfriar's tomorrow, but we're only being given one choice."

_And he won't show up_, John thought suddenly. He looked at all the faces and saw that knowledge reflected there. He wouldn't show up because that would be utterly stupid and he had them trapped. They couldn't choose locating the victim's body over finding the man who'd killed her. Without an arrest and conviction, the case would never be solved and a murderer would still be out there.

It was possible for the police to let Sherlock himself go to Greyfriar's and get the information on where Kelsi was, but John knew they couldn't take that risk. What _if_ the killer really did turn up and Sherlock was somewhere else? He'd slip through their hands.

He wouldn't be there, but what _if_?

_It's like playing the lotto. You know you're going to lose but you still hope you won't._

They couldn't let him walk away. They couldn't even allow for that possibility.

_Whims,_ John thought. That's what Sherlock had said. Neither of them had known how right he'd be.

He felt a sudden stab of guilt and anger at himself – he'd brought them here.

_Yes, spectacularly brilliant, John, well done. Take the case, Sherlock. Think about if it were me and take the case._

"You'd better bloody be kidding," Kipling growled and John refocused.

"I'm not," Sherlock said flatly.

The CI glanced at Anderson again and she just nodded, looking utterly resigned.

_Ten years, _John thought. _So close. Now this._

"Well, we're going to both places anyway. I don't care if this lunatic wants you in a dress uniform accompanied by our pipes band, I'll give it to him if it gets us any information. But we're not letting the Greyfriar's lead slip through our fingers because some maniac's taken a special shine to you. You three, with me. Detective, Doctor, as far as I'm concerned, you are both officially under my command now and you will do exactly what I say when I say it without question. If this is going down, it's going down officially and organised. I'm not going to have a single officer there who doesn't know precisely what he or she is doing and why and when and how much of it they're supposed to do. Come on."

"Five minutes, please," Sherlock said in a calm, quiet tone and John was startled by the "please", which he usually only reserved for wheedling John into sex when John was feeling reluctant but willing to give in with the proper amount of encouragement.

Kipling sucked in a deep breath.

"Five minutes," he agreed. He gestured to Anderson with his head and she shot a quick look at Sherlock who nodded that he did not need her. She spun again, following her CO out the door, and John heard the rattle of blinds covering the interview room's one-way glass window.

When he glanced back at Sherlock, the faked calm was gone and he was rigid, his muscles taut, the tendons on the sides of his neck standing out. John closed the space between them and reached up – he'd never done this in a potentially public place before, but he actually needed it as much as he suspected Sherlock did.

He laced one hand into Sherlock's hair on the back of his head and stroked his husband's scalp with his thumb.

Sherlock tensed even more and growled low in his throat, his shoulders twitching like he might brush John off, which he'd never done before. But he managed to still himself and then dropped his head back slightly, even as he said John's name with a slight snarl in his voice.

John felt some of the tension ebb out very slowly, just enough to settle the tendons in his neck, not enough to do anything about the way he was holding himself, the knife-bright edge etching his muscles.

"You're wrong," Sherlock said, his voice low and John blinked, confusion coursing through him.

"Wrong about what?" John asked.

"You feel guilty for insisting I take this case and now you feel responsible for it leading us here. It's misplaced and unnecessary, John."

"Would you have taken the case if I hadn't told you to?"

"No."

John's lips twitched as he fought down a reply.

"But I could have said no to you as well."

"You didn't, though."

"No, no, I didn't. I'm a grown man fully capable of making my own choices regardless of your opinions and I made the decision to take this case. I'm making the decision now to give up the lead on the girl's location for information about the killer we aren't going to get because that's the option he's forcing upon me. This isn't _you_, John. Don't be selfish about it. I need you to be focused here and now – I need you at your best. You're never at your best when you're feeling sorry for yourself."

John bristled slightly then forced himself to calm down because Sherlock was right. He could beat himself up but it was pointless – and he was less useful when he was doing so. A little acknowledgement that maybe he was due some self-deprecation would be nice, though.

But it was not how Sherlock saw it, it really wasn't.

Sherlock reached up and disentangled John's hand slowly and carefully, ensuring that John knew the motion wasn't a rejection, just the need to be free. When John broke contact with Sherlock's head, he saw the jut of the tendons in Sherlock's neck again for just a moment. Sherlock curled his fingers so tightly around John's hand that John felt his bones grinding together. He couldn't quite suppress a small grimace but didn't say anything.

Sherlock dropped his hand and strode away from him, as far as the small room would let him move, then spun back, raking his hands through his hair and then pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"He won't be there," he said flatly, echoing John's earlier thoughts.

"No."

"Even if he were, even if we could catch him, he would never give up the location of the grave."

"No," John agreed again.

Sherlock stared at him, then crossed the space between them again, grabbing John's face in his hands and bending down to lean his forehead against the doctor's. He exhaled in a rush so that John swallowed the warm breath on his own startled inhale. Sherlock pressed his head more firmly against John's, his eyes closed and his lips still parted. His fingers flexed slightly – tightening against John's face, fingertips digging into the skin – then relaxed again, easing up on the pressure minutely. John covered Sherlock's hands with his own, gripping hard, keeping his breathing in counterpoint to Sherlock's.

He could say "enough" right now, he knew. Sherlock would listen. He'd dislike it, but he wouldn't be angry or resentful. They could walk away right now at a word from John and he was well aware of it. It was just a moment, a few scant minutes, but he recognised it for what it was. He'd felt it before, but so very rarely. Sherlock would do this, if John asked.

He didn't ask. He couldn't. Not while they still had the smallest of chances.

They stayed that way, locked in their silent embrace, until Anderson rapped on the door and there was no more time for doubts, no more time to decide, no more time for anything.


	14. Chapter 14

Too many people, again. There was no way to shut down the entire Castle nor was it practical – they had no idea for whom they were waiting and restricting or denying entry could too easily remove their contact.

Not that it would be the killer – but he _could_ be here.

Sherlock repressed a growl; there were far too many people, both tourists and police officers. He felt confined and conspicuous even standing with John apart from the police, watching the crowds. He could identify all of the officers including the ones in plain clothes. If he could do it, chances were their killer could. The man was a professional.

He was looking for someone in his mid-forties, probably around John's age. Ten years ago, the man had been skilled enough to snatch a ten year old girl right off the street and leave no trace that could be tracked to a location: no tire tracks, no appearances on any CCTV camera, no fingerprints on the girl's jacket or backpack. Ten years ago, he had known precisely what he was doing which suggested a man who had been at least in his mid-thirties back then, having had enough time to gain the necessary experience to work efficiently and expediently.

But he could take his pick of men in their mid-forties, both tourists and police officers alike. It made for a frustratingly substantial sample and Sherlock's eyes flitted over all of them, ignoring the women and the younger men and the children. They were irrelevant.

He resisted checking his watch – two minutes ago they'd had seven minutes, so now they would have five. He could feel each second slipping by toward a resolution that wouldn't come because even if their killer was here, he was not going to reveal himself. What would he do, walk up to Sherlock, identify himself and present his wrists to be handcuffed? He'd gone nearly ten years utterly unidentified. He had no reason to stop now. Prison wasn't a reasonable prospect for a man like him, nor would it be desirable for his employer to see him in prison. Sherlock suspected that loyalty purchased at a price could not match the prospect of early freedom if he turned over the man who'd hired him.

That wasn't going to happen, however, because this man had no intention of being found.

Beside him, John was tense and tired, standing rigidly, his bearing almost hyper military. He'd barely slept, snagging perhaps forty-five minutes sometime in the middle of the night in the barracks at St. Leonard's, but he'd been too wound up to stay asleep any longer. He would pay for it when this was done in utter exhaustion once the adrenaline had worn off, Sherlock knew, but that required little more than somewhere for him to sleep. He'd be fine, at least physically.

The set of the jaw and the glint in his eyes was really the only good indication of how truly angry John was just beneath the surface. It sat ill with Sherlock and made him angry as well, which was unproductive. The killer _wanted_ them to feel frustrated and useless. They _were_ useless, waiting here for a man who wouldn't show up, for information they'd never receive.

Did he know about John's connection to the war monument? Did he have any idea of the good friend from Edinburgh whom John had lost the day he'd also been shot? Was that part of this? The possibility made Sherlock livid which was extraneous at the moment and it made him even more irate that he couldn't properly contain it. Right now, he needed to focus. John was making it difficult to do so properly because John was upset – although trying to restrain it for Sherlock's sake.

If this was any attempt to hurt John, the killer would regret it a hundred fold. It didn't matter how long it took, if this was deliberately aimed at John's loss, then Sherlock would find him and repay the favour. Repeatedly.

He met Kipling's eyes and repressed a growl; the CI had brooked no argument about being there, about overseeing everything, but he'd sent Anderson to Greyfriar's and that sat poorly with Sherlock. _She_ should be there with them at the war monument. He needed her – he knew her and she was reliable. She was also deeply invested in the case and a good officer. Another set of eyes as sharp as hers would be useful.

Three minutes.

He scanned the crowd again, resisting the urge to take John's hand. He didn't need the distraction and told himself he didn't need to use it as a crutch for grounding. He was perfectly able to ground himself when he needed to. And, given how tense John looked, he'd probably break all of the bones in Sherlock's hand if Sherlock touched him unexpectedly.

There were too many people, too many variables. What if he was one of the police officers, or posing as once? Sherlock's eyes swept over all of them, but none of them looked out of place. But how to tell? The man was a professional, he could be anywhere, anyone. He refocused on the tourists – an American man was taking a picture of the monument, backing himself up carefully to get as much of it in the frame as he could.

Another problem. He could be from anywhere. Why assume he was English just because the letters had been posted in the UK? He had obviously been here around Kelsi's abduction, at least, but he could be from anywhere in the world. In a city like Edinburgh, he wouldn't stand out. American, Australian, German, Indian, Iranian, Algerian, anywhere, anyone. He had a good understanding of European folklore, but that could be learned. And it was likely not entirely his idea anyway – whoever had hired him undoubtedly worked in the British government in some capacity and was therefore most likely British. The employer could arrange the messages and simply have his man send them.

Too many variables. Not enough data.

Sherlock sucked in a deep and silent breath.

One minute.

He saw Kipling shift impatiently several metres away from them but ignored it. Sherlock scanned the crowds again, looking for someone who stood out. Or someone who didn't. The problem was, there were plenty of people to choose from in both categories.

He very rarely cursed, not seriously, even to himself, but John was sometimes fond of using his army curses if he was really angry or upset. Sherlock remembered a few of these and used them now.

He thought about the gun in the holster they'd given him very early that morning and itched to use it. Mycroft probably wouldn't approve, but he _had_ arranged for them to have weapons, after all. Perhaps, in some way, he'd wanted them to have to use them.

John stiffened more and Sherlock heard the soft gasp at the same that he felt the shudder of shock and denial run through John's body. He snapped his eyes to his husband, then followed John's gaze to a man standing near the monument, looking at it almost thoughtfully, with sorrow and regret – the same expression John himself had worn.

He was taller than John, five-foot-eleven, closer to Sherlock's age, maybe within a year on either side, shortly cropped medium dark hair and brown eyes that, for the moment, were distant as he looked into memory. He'd been in good shape once but had lost it, former muscle mass disappearing or atrophying somewhat so that he was thinner than he should have been, slighter than the man he'd been when he'd been overseas. His face was unremarkable, Sherlock thought, pleasant but not striking, just a normal man. His clothes were plain if somewhat shabby, a pair of faded jeans and a while polo shirt that was second hand or old enough it should have been replaced, given the faded and uneven texture of the material. He was wearing old trainers as well – or at least one. Because the right leg of his jeans was gathered into a knot below his knee where the rest of his leg should have been. He was on crutches, moving in a way that suggested he was used to them.

Sherlock remembered John as he'd been when they'd first met – cane in hand, favouring his right leg, his clothing also a bit on the shabby side because he could not afford much on his pensioner's salary. An injured veteran, recently returned from Afghanistan.

And now another injured veteran, more recently returned from overseas. Sherlock wondered if John could judge how long the man had been on those crutches – he himself had no good idea. That sort of detailed medical evaluation was why he had John in the first place.

The injured man stared at the monument for a few more minutes and Sherlock and John kept watching him. Sherlock could feel the rage radiating off of John like heat, see the tension that defined his muscles.

Finally, the veteran withdrew his gaze from the monument and glanced around, his eyes landing on Sherlock. He looked puzzled for a moment, as if he trying to figure something out, then seemed to realise that Sherlock was the man he was looking for. He turned, manoeuvring on his crutches, and Sherlock held a hand up to Kipling, who had started to move as well. This clearly wasn't their murderer, unless he'd managed to become a professional killer then a soldier then an amputee in the space of ten years. Not impossible, but unlikely. The man they were looking for wouldn't put himself in harm's way like that.

Sherlock held his ground even though he could tell John disliked it and waited for the man to approach him. At the barest of signals for Kipling, the officers kept still, watching and waiting. The man moved slowly but assuredly on the crutches; this wasn't a new injury.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. His Scottish accent was slightly more distinct than most of the others Sherlock had heard in the city and he pegged it as a variation from a slightly lower economic status, perhaps slightly less education. It was less urban, less smooth, and he heard John gasp again. Sherlock doubted this man sounded anything like Jamie had – he didn't actually look like Jamie, which Sherlock knew because he'd accessed Jamie's files upon first learning about him – but the connection was still there.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding once, a brief movement only.

"Yeah, he said to look out for 'tall, dark and handsome'. Thought that was something only fortune tellers said. Wanted me to give you this."

He held up an envelope, which Sherlock took carefully.

"Who told you this?"

The man shrugged one shoulder.

"Bloke in a pub. Paid me a hundred quid to come here and give this to you. Said it was important, that you'd understand. A hundred quid is a hundred quid."

Sherlock felt the anger flare through John – the other veteran needed the money that badly.

"Describe him," Sherlock ordered.

"'Bout my height, black, shaved head, maybe one eighty, one eighty-five, decent looking, I suppose, no scars or other distinguishing marks. Just a bloke."

"When?"

"Two days ago. Well, the night before last, anyway."

"Where?"

"Murray's Pub, down in Oxgangs."

Sherlock felt John close his eyes.

"Thank you," the detective managed, rather stiffly.

"Police?" the veteran asked as Kipling and some of the other officers moved in towards them.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm afraid they're going to have quite a few questions for you."

The man shrugged again.

"Fine. I don't know anything. I don't even know what that says."

Sherlock tore it open just as Kipling reached them, ignoring the CI's glare, ignoring the voices of another inspector who drew the veteran aside and began talking to him. John was focused on that for another moment but Sherlock sensed his attention redirected as he withdrew the letter.

Kipling's phone rang, cutting a startled swath through their tense silence, and he pulled it out, answering it quickly.

"Anderson, what is it?" he demanded and Sherlock's eyes shot up, letter still folded and held between his thumb and forefinger. There was a moment's pause, then Kipling scowled and pulled the phone away from his ear, putting it on speaker.

"We got the contact here," the inspector said on the other end of the line and the tension in her voice mirrored that in John's face – she was livid and reaching her limit. "A nineteen year old girl, a student. She's– well, not that tall, long brown and very curly hair, hazel eyes, freckles."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and thumbed through the files he'd scanned and saved to it until he found the file photo of Kelsi Murray.

"She's what Kelsi would probably look like today," he said quietly.

"Yes," Anderson snarled from the other end of the line.

Someone sent there to make her angry, someone sent here to make John angry, which would make Sherlock angry.

He knew where they'd go.

He felt a snap of bright rage and managed to restrain it.

"Did she say who gave it to her? A description?"

"Yes, we already asked. Tall white man, blond hair, looked Dutch but didn't have an accent, she said. Young – well, I say young, she said older than her. Put him at maybe twenty-five, but I don't really trust her judgement. Anywhere in his twenties."

"That wasn't him."

"I doubt it. Too young."

Sherlock nodded and filled her in quickly on their deliveryman here and his contact and he heard Anderson huff out an angry sigh.

"Well, we got a letter off of her, too," she said.

"What does yours say?" Kipling demanded, glaring at the phone in his hand.

"It's a picture of a ruler and some trees," Anderson replied with obvious distaste.

Sherlock unfolded his. Then he sucked in a deep breath and held it hard, extending it to the CI who cursed.

"What?" Anderson demanded.

"So's ours," Kipling replied.

* * *

><p>She was there in less than ten minutes while they were still arguing over meaning.<p>

"It's the same pattern as his early letters!" Sherlock snapped as Anderson strode up to join them. "It's a word puzzle, not a story."

"Okay, but what's it mean?" Anderson asked, passing her letter to Kipling who held each of them side-by-side and frowned, shaking his head. He passed them without comment to Sherlock, who did a quick evaluation – yes, the same drawings made by the same hand, but one was not traced from the other. There were enough small variations to indicate they had been done individually, but probably at the same time. They meant the same thing.

"I don't know, not yet. Think, think! A centimetre ruler and trees. They're words, so we need synonyms! John, you do crosswords, think! Ruler and trees, what else could they be?"

"Forest, woods," John said.

"Ruler could be measuring or measure or distance," Anderson added.

"Or monarch or sovereign or leader," Sherlock replied.

"Or straight or line," Kipling sighed. "And the trees could be pines or spruce – they look like a little kid's version of a Christmas tree, just triangles with rectangles attached to the bottom. So, maybe that's it? Christmas tree? There are too many choices."

"And none of them make sense together," Sherlock said, running through each possible combination they'd listed in his mind and dismissing each – they were nonsensical.

"Think, think," he muttered again, this time to himself.

"Is there some measure of lengths of wood?" Anderson asked, then her mouth twisted in distaste. "For coffins?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called up the browser. Beside him, John shifted, glancing about.

"Law?" he said.

"What?" Sherlock asked, derailed from his search.

"Ruler, rule, a rule, law," John said.

"Law forest?" Sherlock enquired.

Kipling's eyes snapped to him suddenly, bright with suspicion.

"Law Park?" he replied.

"Where is that?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's the eight hole at the Murrayfield Golf Club."

Anderson gasped and Sherlock froze, hearing John curse softly beside him.

"Let's go," the Chief Inspector said.

* * *

><p>With clearing the golf course and calling in canine and forensic teams, it took hours. Sherlock joined the search without a word and Kipling said nothing about it, assigning him and John to the same search team that Anderson was in, probably so she could keep an eye on them. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this, although he disliked the tedium of it. He didn't ask if John had ever conducted such a search – having been in Afghanistan, he'd done this or at least something similar. Sherlock put the image of John in uniform with his rifle on a search and rescue mission in the blazing desert heat from his mind because it was distracting and unsettling.<p>

One of the canine units found it, in a wooded area along the edges of the fairway. The search was called off and the three of them were running over to join Kipling before their party was even properly disbanded. Sherlock stood just inside the tree line, next to John, keeping out of the way.

"Fucking bastard," John said softly under his breath. Sherlock touched his hand momentarily and felt John relax somewhat, but the tension was still there. He felt it himself, transmuted into anger at the arrogance of the man who'd killed her and buried her here. He had the gall to choose this particular hole, using the name itself as a hint. Law Park. Her father was a lawmaker and the people searching for her were law enforcement.

Anderson was digging, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up past her elbows, the white fabric already smeared with dirt. There was a streak on her cheek and her skin glistened with sweat. No one had protested when she'd taken the shovel from the hands of a constable and set to work. When it came time for brushes, she tossed the shovel aside and accepted one from Kipling, moving with calm assurance that was stretched over anger and impatience, keeping her focused.

Then she sat back on her heels and tilted her head toward the trees and the sky, closing her eyes and setting her jaw. From where he stood, Sherlock could see the flash of a faded red-and-black plaid skirt against the dirt. The bodies of the other officers who were digging obscured the rest.

"It's her," Anderson said.

Sherlock didn't need to be told.

They stayed until what was left of Kelsi Murray was exhumed and transferred carefully to a body bag, then Anderson hauled herself away, wiping her hands uselessly on her trousers, smearing the dirt around rather than actually getting it off. She joined them, her face alternating between dirty streaks and pale ones where sweat had trickled down and cut clean lines. Her eyes were red-rimmed; it wasn't just drops of sweat that had striped her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"It's only half the puzzle," Sherlock replied, his voice low, bordering on a growl.

Anderson hesitated, then nodded, a hard light in her green eyes.

"I know," she said, her voice still quiet and level but from exhaustion and sorrow, not actual calm. "The case will stay open. I'll keep looking."

"You won't find him. And he's got what he wanted. You'll have to call James Murray and he'll have to come up. He'll miss the vote on Monday."

"I know," Anderson said softly. "It's– I know. All of it. But I'll keep trying. I'll do what I can."

Sherlock bit down on an impatient retort when he felt John touch the inside of his wrist.

"At least we can put this part to rest," she said, shifting so she was able to turn her head and glance back at the pit she'd help dig and the various officers that were still swarming around it, working to cordon it off and secure it.

"It's not enough."

"It's all we've got right now."

Sherlock sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, forced himself to hold it, then release it slowly.

"You'll have to come down to the station," she said. "This is going to take ages to sort out. But at least you can shower and grab some sleep in the barracks. And return your guns. Kipling wants me to remind you very firmly to return your guns."

Sherlock grunted; that hardly seemed like a necessary detail at the moment.

Anderson ran a hand over her face, smearing the dirt streaks even more. She looked away from them to where the girl's body was being loaded into an ambulance under the strict supervision of the medical examiner and two other inspectors. For a moment, she didn't breathe or move, then exhaled a deep sigh.

_Ten years_, Sherlock thought. _Ten years of her life on this_. For an outcome she must have predicted but had clearly not wanted.

"All right," she said as if making a sudden decision, giving her head a shake and turning back to them. "Let's go."


	15. Epilogue

They were back in London two days later. John had never felt such relief to be home, even after he'd been sent back from Afghanistan.

But they didn't talk about it, not immediately. Both of them let it lie by unspoken agreement for a few days, letting the frustration and exhaustion and anger drain off. Sherlock even consented to eat on a regular basis, drink enough water and get a decent amount of sleep.

John only broached the subject when he knew they couldn't put Mycroft off any longer. He was not going have their first real conversation about the matter with his brother-in-law present. It would only make Sherlock defensive and frustrated all over again.

But he did ask Sibyl if she'd read fairy tales to Sherlock when he'd been small and was amused and unsurprised to find out that yes, she had. The knowledge had made him chuckle and had lightened something inside of him. He hadn't told Sherlock, who probably wouldn't find it amusing the way he did. But John smiled whenever he thought of it.

He remembered that particular conversation with his mother-in-law, because it was the last time he ever spoke to her.

(**End**)


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